


A Sharper Lady

by viceroyvonmutini



Category: Harlots (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, as a brit, i mean blayne is in it y'all know the drill, in my home city slang circa regency, just the whole crew, like it will end happily, you have no idea how much fun this was to do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-07-06 13:23:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15886908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceroyvonmutini/pseuds/viceroyvonmutini
Summary: Charlotte Wells does not fall in love, but she still has a heart.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Anon Prompt: I have a Charlotte x Isabella prompt for you (if you feel like writing for this ship): early in season 2 (between 2x03 and 2x04 or something) Quigley asks Charlotte to seduce Isabella (in order to make it easier to manipulate her) when she sees that Isabella is having some sort of feelings for Charlotte.
> 
> It's been so long since I've taken on a project this big - it sort of got away from me, this one. I did change it slightly, from Quigley to Blayne - but why I did that will all become clear (...angst angst angst...).
> 
> This follows the plot. Little extra scenes dotted between those we already know, and just given a little bit more lady-flirtation in there. Apparently, I have a major thing for writing Georgian courtship and in the language of the time, which also means my writing style for this is not my usual, so I don't know how this will go down. 
> 
> It'll probably totally around 3 chapters. I will be ignoring the betrayal at the end because I want them to be happy and also this plot is quite complex as it is, just handling the stuff from the show, and I just couldn't handle the extra emotional angles the betrayal was gonna bring tbh. But they will be happy in the end. Because gay.
> 
> (For General Interest: "a Game of Flatts" was the phrase generally used to indicate sex between women. Fun fact of Georgian slang for you there.)

For all their talk of pleasure gardens this wasn’t exactly the kind of pleasure Charlotte Wells wanted right now. She was tired. A deep, bone tired that made her fearful of sitting in case she never stood up again. Pleasure for Charlotte Wells was a lot of ruin and winning a few bob at hazard at Shakespear’s Head. Nance’d be there, and probably Pa too, and Jacob, and she wouldn't have to think, or stand up straight, or wear this godawful wig. 

She never did like the airs of the dandy - the wealthy lads who owned the world (rake, dandy or otherwise), nor the ladies who laughed like air was a burden below their station: sucking it in only because they absolutely had to. She hated the weight on her head and the discomfort in her stomach that despite half a life of work, never went away in these places. Places like this, where she wasn’t meant to be.

Her work was about belonging, or looking like you were always meant to belong, but something was always never quite right. No one ever said it, but she felt it and knew they could feel it too and she supposed that’s what she didn’t like. The knowing eyes of the men trawling her body like a hand collecting money from the card table, skimming over the dirt and dregs to grab what was theirs; the disdainful eyes of the ladies who knew why she was there and resented her for it. It’s not like she could help it. What else was she meant to do? Starve? 

Still, Charlotte Wells was not one for self-pity, and Quigley was right. She knew what to do. The Fitzwilliam's were her target. Specifically, the brother, though the sister was far more agreeable in both temperament and (if she were being truthful) looks. 

She wandered around the lake, searching discreetly with her eyes for any familiar face. Most of the men here were familiar to her in some form or another, but she could not simply approach the tent of the lauded Marquis of Blayne - at least not without a drink in her stomach first. Fortunately, a rose arrived on a tray, tinged with pink and, although at first she suspected it was not meant for her, she caught the eye of Lady Fitzwilliam across the water holding a very same rose. That was enough of a reason, thought Charlotte, to approach the group of courtiers, ones whom Lady Fitzwilliam entertained with all the propriety of her standing. If she wasn’t a woman, perhaps Charlotte wouldn’t have noticed the stiffness of her posture, or the empty ring in her laughter: the distanced air between her and her brothers friends as though she were always trying to run away. Trying to be an onlooker, but failing. 

But Charlotte was a woman, and one who had a job to do, and also one who noticed all of these things as she had the first night meeting the ladyship. And something - fellow feeling or otherwise - had told her it was more than Lydia Quigley’s secret keeping her here, and something more than all those secrets combined that pushed Lady Fitzwilliam to send her a rose across a lake. Not that Charlotte was particularly delighted at the gesture, and the flicker of warmth that the Lady had sought her with favour was nothing more than the thrill of a job more easily completed. Of finding  someone she knew in this crowd of people who would rather deny her existence than offer her a helping hand if she were drowning -  and the warmth had nothing to do with the intrigue of the be-wigged woman she was now walking towards.

“From you?”

Lady Fitzwiliam turned slightly in her chair. “I’m so glad you could make it.” 

“You can thank your brother for the invite.”

Lady Fitzwilliam took a sip of her wine. “Yes, I suppose I can.” 

The position was awkward. Lady Fitzwilliam sat, Charlotte stood, not permitted to sit unless requested, and though she was sure the Lady was not doing it on purpose, Charlotte was itching to fidget: to domineer the conversation with her wiles and snag a cull for the night. Much more familiar territory than making small talk with a Lady. But she stood her ground, allowing the Lady a power she didn’t know she had, and all Charlotte had to complain about was the piercing stare Lady Fitzwilliam seemed always to hold her in, making her squirm deep in her bones.

“The gardens are very beautiful.” 

“Do you think so? My brother has them especially for this.” As she spoke, Lady Fitzwilliam held out her glass, and one of the men filled it with wine, too wrapped up in their own games to pay her much mind. “A yearly party.” 

“Well I hear of it every year,” teased Charlotte. “Never been though.” 

“Well. Here you are.” 

“Here I am.” Charlotte grappled for something to say, because without words she was left staring at the heiress and wondering why she couldn’t stop staring. “The rose was you?” 

“It was. I thought you could use some company.” 

“I’ve never had too much trouble finding company at these places.” Lady Fitzwilliam concealed her discomfort, eyes darting away (finally) from Charlotte. “But it’s nice to see a friendly face.” 

The Lady smiled at that, recalling their earlier conversation. “So you do court me as a friend?” 

“I wasn’t lying, Lady Fitz.” 

“Miss Wells! How pleasant of you to join us.” The voice of Blayne interrupted them both, and Charlotte noted the tense shoulders of the Lady; her smile squirrelled away for some other time Charlotte hoped to draw it out. 

Charlotte shifted her attention, throwing a grin full of guile to the man, and not at all like the shared conspiracy she held with the Lady.

“I have to thank you for inviting me, do I not?” 

“That would be proper. Come, I want to speak to you.” 

Blayne didn’t give her much choice but to follow him to the edge of tent, and she did not resist as heartily as she might’ve if she had sensed he was a man who liked rebellion. Something told her he want pliancy, at least for now, and she was, after all, here on the job. 

“I’ve guessed your business with my sister,” he began, standing a respectful distance but still managing to leer over her in a way that made her squirm. Perhaps, in a different mood, she would've be on better footing, as she and earlier that day. But she was out of her element, and still trying to work out what part she was meant to play between the two siblings. 

“So you’ve been thinking about me.” 

“It’s not Hazard you’ve been playing is it? It’s a game for girls-only. A game of Flatts.” 

Charlotte could only laugh, and for once was glad for the interruptions of a would-be cull. 

“What price for a taste of your oyster, Miss Wells?” 

That Blayne had pushed the young lord away, and had in a sense protected her, might have ignited a certain avenue of passion to peruse with the man had it been anyone else. But she knew it was not lust that drove the Fitzwilliam brother, but possession. She could see, from the corner of her eye, that his sister was not letting the conversation go unheard and she knew she was becoming a play piece in a game she wasn’t sure she knew the rules of, nor could play very well. Blayne was rotten, but at least the Lady was a potential ally. Were she to lay with one, she could still court the other. 

Blayne returned to her. “We should retire somewhere more quiet. My rooms, perhaps?”

The job, it seemed, was easier than she first anticipated. “At least he asked if I was for sale.” 

She meant none of it, of course, and would let the Marquis have his way with her however he chose. But the sight of Lady Fitz standing, interjecting on the two much as her brother had formed a habit of doing between them, was not entirely unwelcome. It would thrill the chase of the Marquis, at least - and allow Charlotte a moment. 

“Miss Wells. Let me offer you the sanctuary of some female company.” 

Charlotte said nothing: hooked arms with Lady Fitz and allowed herself to be walked - half-dragged - as a beau, or a female companion promenading the parks somewhere far more demure than what she was ordinarily used to. She could feel - and she was sure the Lady at her side could also feel - the gaze of the Marquis on their backs, and if Lady Fitz took them far, far away from the tent, then she made no comment. In fact, they walked in silence. Perhaps, too, Lady Fitz was aware of Lydia Quigley’s eyes on them, forever reminding Charlotte of the job at hand. And perhaps the tight lock of their arms was much more for Lady Fitz’s sake, than for Charlotte’s. 

As Lady Fitz worked up the courage to speak, leading them to a stone Trianon in the gardens much less populated with debauchery and people, Charlotte righted herself. She was, of course, the best at what she did, but the airs and graces of the _beau monde_ were an exhaustion on her, as she was sure it was on every lady. At least she did not live in it: that thought sustained her through all their knowing looks. One was never to be accepted into the _beau monde_ , one had to be born into it. But one born into it could very easily be cast out, never to return.

Entering the stone sanctuary, Lady Fitz unhooked their arms.

“I’ve done you a favour this evening. What will you do for me?” 

The noise of the party was muffled, though still loud. 

“What would you have me do?” 

“It’s quite simple really. I want to destroy Lydia Quigley.” 

Ah. So she did feel the eyes of the hag on their backs: the ministrations of their joint jailer. And perhaps Charlotte had not overstepped her mark when she declared that they become friends. Though Charlotte had felt the courage build up necessary to say those words, Lady Fitz did not stutter nor waver in her conviction, and perhaps Charlotte believed Lady Fitz. Trusted her word. And as they shared a long look (again, Fitz capturing her in that unnaturally beholden gaze), perhaps that belief guided Charlotte to say her next words less carefully than she might. 

“So do I.” 

Cards revealed. And Lady Fitz seemed almost relieved; looked away and let her next words fizzle out in her breath, uncertainty returning to her voice. 

“So how do you propose to do it?”

Charlotte barely repressed a scoff. “Why do you think I’m living with her? I’m waiting for my moment.” 

“Then we’ll be allies. Upon one condition.” 

Always, a condition. A price to buy her. Business. “Name it.” 

“That you have nothing to do with my brother.”

“Got the pox has he?”

A slight jest, but she knew she was becoming part of a play she didn’t understand. But what choice did she have? The look the Lady gave her was not one of humour, nor the look of someone simply willing to deprive a sibling of a toy, but something that revealed another piece of the tension between the two siblings. 

“As you wish.”

She had every intention of keeping her word, to her greatest ability. But she knew the competing interests of her goals would render her decision a moot point. She would not chose him as a cull. That was all she could promise.   
  


* * *

  
The Marquis of Blayne did not care for softness. He was not cruel on this particular night, but he was not giving. He was no different from any other of her culls, though perhaps none of them would have payed 100 Guineas for her time. The man stood at the window was not there for her but for his sister, she knew that much. He could not let his sister have all the fun. That is what he had said, and Charlotte had not forgotten it. She was, after all, a toy. And toys were meant to be bought. 

 

“Come back to bed, my Lord." Once spent, the Marquis had merely stood and walked to the window, picking up his cane and handling it as if he were nursing an deep, abiding fury. Ready to strike out at her in a cold rage. As she said her words, she did not mean them. 

“Tell me, what do you know of my sister?”

Charlotte shifted under the covers. “That she is your sister, and very bad at dice.” 

“Very good.” He kept his eyes out the window. “I’m still wondering if it is a game of flats you played. My sister is, as you can imagine, very dear to me.” 

“I didn’t chouse her out of it, if that’s what you mean.” 

“I don’t think you did Miss Wells. You’re a marvellous player, and last night you were spectacular.” 

“You’ve an account now. I’m yours whenever you like.” 

Blayne ignored her, and Charlotte knew she had misread him. “I want you to seduce my sister.” 

Charlotte couldn’t say she was expecting that. “What?” 

“I want you to seduce my sister. For a price, of course. I’ll pay you. You can add it to my account if you like.” 

Charlotte shimmied up on the cushions, sitting herself upright. She chose her next words carefully.

“To what end?”

“That hardly matters.” 

“A whore isn’t a seductress, my Lord. I’m not a companion for hire.” 

“And yet I am hiring you. 500£ should do the trick. The price of my sisters gambling debt.” 

“You will pay me on condition that I seduce her? How can you measure that? I can’t promise success.” 

“No I suppose you can’t. What do you think? Do you think my sister holds unnatural lust towards you?” 

Charlotte paused a little too long and maybe thought a little too hard about that question. Not because she was thinking about the Lady Fitz, but because she was wondering, deep down, if she had any real objections to seducing the Lady, regardless of her larger schemes. The Lady was not disagreeable, after all.

“I wouldn’t know, my Lord. I’m a whore. Most of what we do is unnatural lust.”

“Whore. Harlot. Whatever you are. 500 Guineas to seduce my sister. Paid immediately. I won’t tell Quigley, of course. My own little experiment.” 

Charlotte thought. Thought about her plans, the layers of scheming already too dense and falling away beneath her fingers. Adding another angle would only lead to ruin. And yet it would provide more of an excuse to spend time with her without the Marquis over their shoulder. He would assume she were doing his bidding. And the task itself was not exactly against Charlotte’s own desires: a fuck was a fuck. If the Marquis of Blayne wanted to ruin his sister, it was not her place to ask why, or what his goals were. She would keep her safe as much as she could. They were allies. She could do that much.

“Alright my lord. 500£ to seduce your Lady Fitzwilliam. Anything else?” 

The smile on Blayne’s face was not something she ever wanted to see again.

“Not for tonight. Though next time we meet, perhaps it would be more enjoyable without the hideous decoration of this room.”

Charlotte laughed, though it was empty. What else could she do? 

“As you wish.”   
  


* * *

  
Seeing Lady Fitzwilliam waiting for her in the parlour at Golden Square was a shock. Not, at first, unpleasant, but the warmth that settled in her body at the sight of the Lady was quickly discarded, never to be considered. She shooed away the girls at the door, closing it in their faces. 

“Lady Isabella,” announced Quigley with glee.

“I have come for a moment with Miss Wells.” 

Charlotte, no fool, knew what this was about.

“Ah. Miss Wells’ time comes at a price.” 

Charlotte, who had never once shied away from the fact of her profession, was now driven to something like modesty as Quigley announced her place as goods to the Lady. She did not wish to charge for friendship, she supposed, or perhaps it wasn’t fair to charge an ally for a moment of her time. 

Lady Fitz removed an earring and placed it upon the table. Charlotte barely looked at her, darting her gaze, not wanting to meet the Lady’s. Instead she focused on Quigley, offering a smile at the price paid - a smile of triumph she didn’t mean - as she watched. Quigley appraised the piece for far too long, taking satisfaction in her power, before swanning off behind closed doors. Charlotte rested her pose, sagging her head. The door had barely shut before Lady Fitz began and although Charlotte knew what was coming, she felt she barely had the strength to keep going with this farce.

“You promised.”

“He paid me a hundred Guineas.”

“Oh I should’ve known a harlot can always be bought.” 

“My body yes but not my mind.” 

 “He takes everything that is mine and makes it his.” 

So she was in a game, and she was a pawn. Of course she knew that - but Isabella’s? Lady Isabella’s piece? How far was that true, she wondered. Was the trust already there? Did Lady Isabella trust her enough already as an agent. Or did she mean friendship? Fellow-feeling? Charlotte had always felt someone’s - Quigley’s, perhaps, or her Ma’s - but never Isabella’s. She never belonged to a cull or a keeper. And yet Isabella was right. Charlotte was hers. In what capacity, she didn’t know, but Charlotte knew it wasn’t a lie, and now she was harbouring instructions from the Marquis to seduce this Lady who already saw Charlotte as _hers_. 

“I live in a chamber of mirrors,” continued the Lady, and Charlotte knew without a doubt that she would not lose Isabella’s only friend to her brother, “and his is the only reflection I see.”

“Then you must shatter it.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.” She must. “You locate a weakness, and you press.”

“Did you learn that from Mrs Quigley?” 

Yes. “She is the only one I wish to break.” 

She could only hope the Lady would trust her. She should tell her about her brother, about what he asked her to do - but not here. Not when Lady Isabella had already felt one broken promise from her. That she had no choice of the matter would have been no consequence to the Lady, and she would not press to defend herself. She only wanted Isabella to trust her, and let her help. Isabella moved closer, and Charlotte watched her think.

“How can I help?” 

Charlotte wanted to laugh. Here she was trying to help the Lady stuck in impossible circumstances, and the Lady was asking for _her_ help. A mutually beneficial partnership, she supposed, and yet for once she did not like how she was meant to play this game. It felt like tugging the wings from a helpless fly, or scorching a spider under the sun magnified by glass. What she needed from Lady Fitz was not fair of her to ask. She did not want to press the wound any harder than she had to, but she did not have the dissimulation of a courtier; and it is always better to pull a splinter all at once than tug it painfully from a finger. And then there was the request of the Marquis. 

“She wants me to get close with your brother again.”

A second of lost composure and Charlotte watched the Lady flit, swiftly and finally, to resigned acceptance. She would not fight. A relief to Charlotte, but a pain too. She was not the Marquis’. She was Isabella’s.

“I understand.”

If she were anyone else. If her head wasn’t all business and her heart not encrusted with jewels she might’ve said sorry, or been softer with the Lady. But she didn’t yet know the game and trust was not an easy thing. She wished for the Lady to trust her, but she did not trust the Lady, nor had she given any reason for the Lady to trust her. And yet Lady Isabella once again acquiesced far too easily, grasping at straws to be free of whatever it was that contained her. So they stood, and the Lady did not leave nor elaborate, and though Charlotte was not under the thumb of the Marquis of Blayne, there was a demure woman in the parlour of a whore house, and she was but a whore who had been less than satisfied the night before. 

“Is there anything else you want?” She ventured, unsure as to why the Lady had yet to leave. Maybe it was something in return she offered Isabella. In return for allowing me access to your brother, I will allow you to have me. A fair trade and nothing more.

When it was clear Lady Fitz was not sure how to respond, or even if she could respond, Charlotte reached for the jewel on the table. A jewel, she noted with a pang, that was worth far more than her time. The Lady had paid for a night and a morning. The Lady Fitzwilliam could have paid with a pea, and she would have been granted a night and morning, mused Charlotte. 

“You’ve already paid,” she continued. A transaction and nothing more. She shut down her musings.

A sound escaped Isabella, the start of a sentence. Maybe: “I don’t know what you mean”, or: “No”, or: “I have to go.” Charlotte didn’t care. She leant in and for a moment her mind flitted to the Marquis and to his demands, and if she were to fulfil them she was sure a kiss on the lips would not have been rejected - Charlotte instead kissed her softly on the cheek. A parting gift, or a soft note of understanding. If she were to seduce the Lady Fitzwilliam, she would do so as she wanted, in a way that made her own heart flutter beneath its jewels and tell her to treat the Lady right. 

Charlotte pulled back and Isabella fell into a deep blush. She tried to affect a look of offence that fell short of the mark, and Charlotte did not feel her act had gone without appreciation. Instead, Isabella found herself wishing more than anything to move her hand to her cheek, or to touch where she had been kissed. To have a moment of suspension where she could think. But years of social training permitted her not one of these things, and she squirrelled them away, along with her doubts as to Charlotte’s intentions, and her doubts as to why she wasn’t doubting the harlot more than she was. 

“My brother’s card party tomorrow. 2 o’clock. Bring the bitch.” 

Charlotte smiled. She liked that. She liked that ferocity a lot.   
  


* * *

  
Lucy sat down dressed only in stays, reaching for a mug of old hock left on the table. 

“Morning.” 

Charlotte kept spooning her breakfast into her mouth, not breaking her rhythm. Lucy took a long swill of her beer, luke warm and stale. 

“Blayne wants me to seduce his sister.” 

“Isabella Fitzwilliam?”

“I haven’t told her yet.”

“Is the money good?” 

“That man has the airs of a duke and the grace of a scrub.” 

“Don’t go soft just because Isabella Fitz is nicer.” 

“I’m not going soft.” 

“Then do it.”

“Course I have to do it - £500.”

Lucy whistled. “Not bad.” 

Charlotte stopped spooning and sat back in her chair, finally looking at her younger sister. It was then Lucy clocked.

“You don’t want to do it, do you?”

“I don’t like this. And I don’t like him. And it’s getting too complex Luce. I just want to take down Quigley.” 

“And that you’ll do,” said a voice from the doorway. Nancy Birch. “Won’t hurt to make it easier with the help of Lady Fitz.”

Nancy came to sit by Lucy, stealing the beer and finishing it off. 

“She’s more useful if she trusts me.” 

“Does she have a reason not to trust you?” said Lucy. Charlotte shot her a look. They were whores. That was a whole big reason right there.nLucy shrugged. “Tell her what he wants you to do and then plan. Or don’t tell her at all and don’t seduce her. Or seduce her.” 

Charlotte swallowed. With her piece said, Lucy stood up and left to get ready for the day, brushing a comforting hand over her sisters shoulder as she left. Nancy watched Lucy disappear before she sat forward and fixed Charlotte with a look.

“So what’s the problem.”

“There’s no problem Nance.” 

“Then do the job. Don’t go soft.” 

“I’m not going soft.” She wasn’t going soft. She could do the job. 

“Why not this cull?” 

It wasn’t that she didn’t want this cull. “I want the cull.” She wanted this cull more than she wanted the Marquis. And maybe that was the problem.

Nancy sat back. If she had some gin she’d’ve pulled it out: Charlotte looked like she needed it. “You’re ya Ma’s girl through and through.” Charlotte looked at her then, and Nancy continued. “You wanna do this cull then do the cull. Stop telling yourself you can’t.”

“Nance.”

Nancy stood up. “Speaking of your Ma: she’ll be coming back soon. Might want to get back to Quigley.”

“Yeah.” Charlotte made no sign of moving.

“It’s alright to like ‘em you know, every once in while."  
  


* * *

  
For a man who claimed he wanted his sister seduced, thought Charlotte Wells, pulling on her dress with as much speed as she dared; for a man who claimed he wanted her to seduce his sister, he certainly didn’t want her attention to waver from him. 

Her body burned. Not with the soft glow of finished sex but in agony and violation and she wanted nothing more than out. Out of this house and this game and back home to her Ma. To Pa and Lucy and Nance and the girls. Back to simply catching culls and trying to find a keeper. She stalked through the halls of the country house, hurling herself down the stairs as fast as she could with decorum. The staff has all retired for the evening, and she was alone. Free to flee and find some gin to wash the bad taste from her mouth and burn the skin from her bones to try and get clean. Except, at the bottom of the stairs, waiting in halls, perusing the books lining the walls of only to make herself look busy, stood Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam - who turned her attention to Charlotte the moment the door to the parlour had closed. 

Charlotte did not want to stay and meant only to speed past the Lady. She didn’t need this. She didn’t want it. She shut the door and ignored the woman, but couldn’t hold back her anger. Or was it pain? She never was one for self-pity, but it didn’t mean she didn’t feel it all the same: like the world was unfair and she wasn’t strong enough to bear it. 

“Charlotte.”

“Don’t fear. He spent all his anger on me.”

She had no right to be angry. Not at Lady Fitz, not when she was sure what she had endured was only a night of what the Lady at her side had endured for a life time, in some form or another. But she couldn't stand another second in this place. She needed home.

“Stay a moment.”

“I need a drink.”

“I’ll accompany you.”

Charlotte stopped. If she had been in better humour she might have laughed. If she had felt resentment towards the Lady she might have laughed too, with bitterness. Instead she merely sighed, voice heavy with the reality of things. 

“You don’t wanna go where I’m going.” I don’t want you where I’m going. It’s my home.

“Where?” 

“Home.”

Charlotte walked away, fully intent on heading back to Nancy’s and finding comfort in the familiar; placing a few bets on a fight and drinking herself stupid and maybe picking up a cull for fun: to please herself. 

“Wait.”

Instead, she found herself stopping at Isabella’s voice. Strong and insistent, and though Charlotte wanted to bathe in a bath of acid and wash herself clean of this gilded prison, she waited. 

Isabella didn’t move towards her. “I. I know somewhere.” The strength in her voice gone again. How could a woman who endured so much not know how strong she was, nor utilise her strength readily. In flashes, Charlotte would see what Lady Fitz could become if only she weren’t so fearful. If only she didn’t waste so much time being fearful, and started being furious. Charlotte spun on her heel. “Not anywhere I’d wanna be.”

“Please. It’s not your home I know, but it is private. My - my brother. He will not disturb you or I again tonight. He will be spent.”

“He certainly was,” muttered Charlotte, knowing full well the Marquis of Blayne lay prone on his bed, asleep in his fury as the bruises of her body ached.

“Come. Please.”

Charlotte sighed. Some deep part of her remembered dimly that she was being paid to seduce this woman, and that time alone was what she needed to complete the job, but she was too tired to think of business or even pleasure. She wanted to go home. And yet she could neither find it in herself to reject Isabella’s offer, given, she knew, only out of kindness. She wanted company, and perhaps she could spare an hour before the lonely coach back to the city proper.

“Lead the way then.”

Isabella was overjoyed but did not show it, pleased that she had somehow gotten through to Charlotte. They had formed a bond enough for the girl to want to be alone with her, and the thought sent Isabella giddy with happiness at perhaps having a friend. But she hid it well, knowing better than most that what Charlotte needed right now was not her girlish excitement, but a sturdy friend. Perhaps she was being selfish (she was, she knew) for demanding Charlotte’s time after everything that had no doubt happened to her this evening, but then she had hardly expected Charlotte to heed her calls. 

(As it was, Charlotte did heed her calls because, as Lady Fitz would soon find out, the heart of a harlot is not easily won, and certainly not the heart of a Wells woman; but once won, no stronger devotion could be found. However, for the moment Charlotte barely knew her feelings herself, nor why she paid notice to Isabella’s calls for companionship. She knew only that the Lady was kind, and that she would very much like to rest on her shoulder and sleep - though preferably in the comfort of a Covent Garden tavern not a Sussex estate. Still, Charlotte would take it.) 

Charlotte was lead downstairs to the servants quarters. The house asleep, only their footsteps echoed. To her surprise, Lady Fitzwilliam was rather adept at lighting the candles that guided their way, hand clasped around a golden candelabra worth more than Charlotte had earned that year alone, most likely. 

“You come here often.” Not a question but a statement. Isabella was comfortable down here, and it showed. 

“Yes.” She kept her voice soft to let her staff sleep. It was a comparatively small household but they cared for her well. Though her ladies in waiting were her brother’s choosing, she had managed to sneak in a fair few loyal to her. Sympathetic might have been the better word, thought Isabella, as she opened the door to the kitchen. It was bare stone and sparse, but cook had left all the things out necessary for tea, and there was water heating over the fire to pour. Charlotte didn’t offer to help. Instead, she watch Lady Fitzwilliam, in her cumbersome dress, place the candelabra on the table and make a pot of tea - served in the finest china of course, and on a tray polished to a silver sheen, but there was something about a Lady making tea, familiar in her own home, that was making Charlotte relax and her heart stutter in surprise. So she watched as Isabella poured the tea and took the tray to a partially hidden door on the opposite side of the room. 

“Can you bring the candles. There should be a key, just beside the firewood...” Isabella trailed off slightly, waiting patiently by the door as Charlotte rummaged for the key and brought the flickering candle light with her to the door. In the orange glow, she eventually managed to fit the key in and unlock the door, not sure what she was expecting when it opened. 

It was nothing special. More cold stone and kitchen supplies on high shelves. But there was a small, personal fireplace and two chairs that were clearly comfortable, if dirty. There was a small wooden table, and there were books - the same as those resting in the shelves upstairs, but here they were kept on the floor, three in a pile. Just enough to keep one entertained for a few evenings. There were old broadsheets strewn on the table, and the remnants of a bottle of gin, and Charlotte was sure she’d find more in the room - maybe hidden behind the racks of salted meats or jars of animal fat. Charlotte put the candelabra on the table, the key beside it, and reached for the bottle of gin. 

“This is the servants quarter, but they let me use it sometimes of an evening after they have gone to sleep,” explained Lady Fitz, setting down the tray. She walked back to the door, and shut it, locking it tight.

Let her use it. The words struck Charlotte as out of place. Surely she had free reign of her household, as any lady of standing, and yet Charlotte didn’t feel like these were the words of a woman who did not master her staff with efficiency. Rather, they seemed to be the words of someone who respected that, when all said and done, those who served her meals and filled her fireplaces were to be respected. Charlotte held out the bottle. “There a glass?” 

“Somewhere,” waved off Isabella, already walking to the fire. She crouched awkwardly in her petticoats, but the movement was practiced, like she had done this many times before. Charlotte, searching the shelves for hidden glass-wear, watched her light the fire from the corner of her eye. “I’m sure they won’t mind you drinking it."

Charlotte hadn’t given a thought as to whether they would mind. “Never thought I’d see a Lady light a fire.”

“I am not incapable Miss Wells, though in this dress I might as well be.”

Charlotte laughed at that, before her fingers found two gin glasses tucked behind a pound of flesh. She pulled them both out from their hiding place. Lady Fitz has already brushed the dirt from her frock and seated herself, angled towards the heat and the light as she began to pour herself some tea. 

“Am I to assume you don’t want some?” 

Charlotte smiled, pouring out two measures of gin: one for her and one for the lady, if she wanted. “Maybe later.” Still, she didn’t sit. She pushed a glass towards the Lady Fitzwilliam and watched as she considered it. For a moment, Charlotte though she might have gone too far, but eventually the Lady put down her teapot and took up the glass. She sniffed it gently.

“It won’t bite.”

“It smells like fumes.”

“Tastes like it too.” Charlotte tossed back her drink without so much as a grimace. “But it’s warm and it’s cheap, and we like it.” 

Isabella watched her swallow, considered some more, and then, to Charlotte’s surprise, drank as she had done: all in one. There was a slight splutter and a choked cough as Isabella struggled to hide her reaction to the burning spirit, but she didn’t exactly look displeased at the sensation either. 

“It’s not like wine.”

Charlotte laughed. “No, it’s not. It’ll put a few hairs on your chest.”

Isabella smiled, and put down her glass. “I suppose it wasn’t entirely intolerable.” 

“I’m glad my Lady approves,” though by the way Charlotte poured herself some more, it wouldn’t have matter if Isabella had approved or not.

“Please sit.”

Charlotte did so on the chair opposite the Lady. She nursed her drink, holding it close. The stiffness of her back belied her pain.

“Can I -“ Isabella cut herself off, shifting slightly. She tried again, her voice soft as a whisper. “You can relax, you know.” 

Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “Says the woman in the 10 foot wig.” But despite her words, Isabella noted in satisfaction that Charlotte leant back in the chair, and sensed that were it not for her dress, she would have sprawled herself a little more.

“I come here at night,” began Isabella. Maybe because she felt she owed Charlotte an explanation, by way of apology for her brother, hoping this small treasure of safety might do for her what it did for herself. Or perhaps, she thought to herself, she just wanted to tell Charlotte the truth. “Quite often, in fact. My brother is...not the easiest man to live with. I know this is the servant quarters, but they let me here for respite in the early hours of the morning. They have caught me asleep here, you know. In the grips of Morpheus, still dressed.” 

Charlotte simply watched her, listening. They always seemed caught in one another, daring to look away. Neither ever did. Charlotte was meant to be seducing her, but she couldn’t help but feel like, if Isabella had asked, she would have been entirely at the Lady’s mercy. 

“Your brother is an interesting one.”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“I’ve had worse.” 

Lady Fitz looked away into the fire. Charlotte, long accustomed to things, had forgotten how words could be so shocking to others. She tried to change the tone, avoid the pity she was sure to find in Isabella’s eyes. “Your brother wants me to seduce you,” she said, finishing her gin. 

Isabella’s head snapped to look at her. “Oh.” 

It was breathy, and if it had been anyone else Charlotte might have thought Isabella scandalised. But she remembered the day at Golden Square - the day she had kissed her cheek - and knew, delighted in the fact, that it was far more than the scandalous insinuation that shook Isabella.

Charlotte reached forward, and poured herself some tea. Lady Fitzwilliam sat up straighter.

“How much?” 

“500 Guineas for your seduction. The price of your gambling debt.” 

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Probably wants to ruin you.”

“He has already done that.” There it was, thought Charlotte, the venom in her voice, always lurking beneath.

“How so?”

Isabella did not reply, and Charlotte felt that she would not get an answer tonight. She swiftly changed the subject.

“I agreed to the terms, of course.”

“So you are here at his bidding.” 

That venom directed at her was no more pleasant than it was that day in Golden Square. “No. I am here at yours.”

Isabella fidgeted. Charlotte continued. “I said yes because now what reason will he have to suspect of our meetings, except of my seduction? He will no longer question us.” 

“He will watch us like a hawk.”

“Then we will act like his prey. But we are not.” 

Charlotte said the words with such conviction, her gaze steady and strong despite everything this evening, that Isabella found herself holding back a smile just at the thought of Charlotte by her side, beating back her brother, and Quigley, and the whole of London if they must. And her daughter. Her daughter that Charlotte did not her know about, but she knew - of course - Charlotte would not think any less of her. 

“Miss Wells, I -“ 

She stopped herself. Looked away. Not tonight. She would not tell her secret tonight. Tonight, too much had been done. 

Charlotte mistook her words for opposition to the plan. “All we have to do is play along. That’s it. Invite me to your home, spend time with me. And when we feel his gaze, we will act as companions do.”

“Did you not say you wanted to be my friend?” asked Isabella, voice soft.

Charlotte grinned. “Not that type of companion Lady Fitz.” 

The blush that worked its way up her cheeks was worth the words. Charlotte found herself admiring Isabella in the firelight, wondering why she hadn’t noticed the sparkling jewels around her neckline, her eyes trailing the tight muscles of a neck begging to be worshipped. Those thoughts, scolded Charlotte to herself, were best left to Greek street, and not directed at a woman rightfully a Marquise. 

“Of course.” 

There was a silence as the two drank their tea. Vaguely, Charlotte wondered if she really would rather have been at the coffee-house than here. 

“Come to my town house in St. James. Do you know it?” 

Charlotte shook her head. “When shall I come?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry sorry sorry it took a long time I know! I'm just in the middle of a move and starting a new course so I'm little short of time, but I promised myself I would get this out by the end of the week and here it is! Thanks for all the support, and I hope you enjoy this one as well. 
> 
> After this chapter things will get a lot more "absolutely not connected with the show" because I'll just be diverging from it entirely because Charlotte Wells Deserves Happiness Fight Me.

Lucy tore a piece from the loaf on the table. “Do you trust her?” 

Charlotte paused. Not because she didn’t know the answer - she trusted Isabella with a lot more than her life - but because she didn’t know what cause the woman had given her to make her trust her like that. 

“Guinea gold, Luce.” 

There was a silence. Charlotte kept her eyes out the window, and Lucy studied her. Waiting. But Charlotte didn’t look at her. They could hear the noises of pleasure around the house - Ma talking with a cull as he chose his girl, and the horses in the street outside. But Charlotte wasn’t going to talk about it. 

“So she knows her brother asked you to seduce her.” 

Charlotte nodded.

“And?”

“And nothing. We go on as before. I’m getting to closer to Quigley, and I’m getting closer to Isabella,” Lucy raised an eyebrow at the familiarity, but kept quiet. “And those two can help each other. She’s still not telling me something though.”

“Who? Quigley?”

“No. Isabella.”

“Her secret?” 

“Her secret.” 

* * *

“She’s got the pox.” 

“Oh.” To her credit, Lady Fitzwilliam barely flinched. Charlotte was referring to a woman in the arms of a man, strolling just ahead. 

“Walking Tyburn I reckon.” 

“Tyburn?” 

“A hanging always gives a bit of extra work. Sorry souls and those who’ll take more than they can give; they'll lie in wait asking round the Rose for a free go and then you’ve got the pox or the clap, or whatever else men harbour.” 

Walking St James it hardly seemed the place to be discussing such things so openly. For the first time in her life, Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam was on a ramble around the park, and though no onlookers would know it by sight the feeling sent a thrill through her. Perhaps because she was breaking decorum. Or perhaps because of who she was with. 

“I dread to think,” replied Lady Fitz, her tone light, despite their topic of conversation. “You would go with them for free?”

“Some would. The damned have nothing else to lose.”

“And you?” 

Charlotte tried not to register offence. She simply tilted her head, the feathers of her hat fluttering in the wind.

When she didn’t receive and immediate response, Isabella backtracked. “I didn’t mean to cause offence.”

“No offence.” Charlotte weighed her next words carefully. “It’s a business, Lady Fitz. I would be in a bad way if I worn’t getting paid.” 

The two walked. Charlotte looked at her surroundings, seeing a few familiar faces of both men and women. Her instinct was to keep her head down but Lady Fitz walked proud beside her, well-worn against the gazes of others. So too was Charlotte, and yet she didn’t want to overstep with Isabella. Bring her disgrace, perhaps, or let news travel to her brother. But what did they have to hide? She was meant to be seducing her, after all.

“I must remember that.” 

Charlotte was about to protest: to say that Isabella would never have to pay for her time, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to say it aloud. 

“I didn’t -“ Charlotte cut herself off. She had meant it. She just hadn’t meant it when it came to Isabella. She would always be a whore, but she could still be a friend; something other than a possession paid for in coin.

The heels of their shoes clipped the cobbles in a steady rhythm. They could almost forget the city, and the noise of the horses hurtling past, and focus on the green, the façade of respectability and the gentle scent of nosegays. 

“You said once you wanted to be my friend.” Yes, thought Charlotte, I did. “Did you mean it?” 

“Yes. I did.” 

Isabella allowed a shy smile, leading the two of them towards her townhouse as they secreted themselves behind a closed door. Charlotte was lead through to the front room where tea was laid, with some cold meats and wine to pick from. The women sat at two sides of the chair, waiting for the housemaid to serve their wine.

“I hope this is satisfactory. When I invited you, I didn’t know what you expected from me.”

“I should be asking you that. You invited me into your home.” After I said I would seduce you, she finished in her head. 

“Yes.” And Isabella had no idea why she had done that - or knew exactly why she had done that, but didn’t want to examine exactly _why_ she had done that too closely. “I thought it would help.”

“To convince your brother? Think he believes plenty enough that you’ve an ‘unnatural lust’ Lady Fitz.”

“Is that what you would call it? An unnatural lust.”

“No, I -“ Charlotte’s response was a quick, and vehement denial. “No. Those were his words, not mine.”

Isabella took a sip of her wine. “And what would you call it, Miss Wells?”

Charlotte looked at the woman by her side who refused to meet her gaze, staring into the fire instead. Her profile, with the sun beaming through the curtains, was radiant, bathed in orange glow, and maybe it was the ridiculous wigs or the copious frocks that adorned them both, but Charlotte Wells found herself wanting nothing more than to see Isabella Fitzwilliam truly as herself. Underneath all the layers of sheeting, just a body and the fire in her eyes that flared far too infrequent. Charlotte wanted to draw it all out. 

“I’m a harlot, Lady Fitz. Most of what I do is considered unnatural lust.” 

Isabella let the words settle in her mind. No, she thought. Nothing about Charlotte Wells was unnatural. Nothing at all. 

“No.” 

Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “No? Don’t think you’re gonna change the minds of half of London just by saying no. I’m a whore through and through. You got a damned whore in your home so might as well get used to it.” 

Charlotte regretted her words at once. But then, she had wanted to be vulgar: to frighten the Lady into facing what she was really talking to because she would always be a whore. And yet Isabella neither shied away nor blushed.

“You are always welcome here, Miss. Wells,” replied Isabella. Charlotte found herself silenced by the quiet sureness of the response. She changed the subject. 

“I could always seduce you if you’d like.”

She had aimed for a jest and it had hit the mark. It was Isabella’s turn to raise an eyebrow, perhaps in challenge to the girl at her side.

“And how would you do that?”

Charlotte put down her glass, but didn’t move any closer than she was. “S’hardly an appropriate place for it.”

“I am in my own home, surely I get to decide who seduces me. And where.”

Charlotte laughed loud, and Isabella found herself beaming at the sound. “I guess you’re right.”

The two quieted. Sat in silence for what felt like an hour but was perhaps only minutes. She didn’t care. She had to leave, before she started to relax and enjoy the wine in her belly and the food at her lap.

“I must take my leave.”

Isabella snapped to attention at once, putting aside her wine and standing. “Yes of course. I’m sorry to have kept you.”

Moving much more slowly, Charlotte mirrored her actions. She laughed softly. “Not at all. You haven’t kept me, Lady Fitz, but if you did, it weren’t against my will.” 

Lady Isabella let the words settle, returning the shy smile Charlotte sent her way: genuine, and kind. A kindness Isabella hadn’t often seen from anyone. 

“Is there anything else you want?” Charlotte heard her own words parroted, and her smile widened just a little. She was half expecting a kiss to her cheek, though she knew that would’ve been a step too soon for the Lady. Not that she wanted it so badly, of course. But the playful nature of the words delighted her, and it was pleasing to see Isabella at ease with her.

Instead, Charlotte eyed the meat on the table. “That girl I spoke of. With the pox?” 

“I remember.”

“Used to be Quigley’s. She’s a streetwalker now. Came over to Ma’s a bit. Back to Quigley’s. Sprained her ankle - with child, you know. Quigley didn’t take kindly to that, and chucked her out.”

“Oh.”

Charlotte didn’t know why she was saying this. “Miss Lucy - you won’t know her - she's looking after a child now. And she’s got the pox. No one’ll say nothing though, won’t harm her trade. Suppose you think that’s bad. We want her working because we know how bad it gets. We help when we can. Take her boy in, let him play with Jason. Feed them both. We can’t let her stay too often, but we keep her out the tavern and off the ruin too much.” Charlotte didn't know why she’s started this story, but now she’d begun she couldn't seem to stop. “Anyway. Don’t know why I told you that.”

Isabella took a step towards her. “I want to hear it.” 

“You don’t want to hear about that stuff.”

“I do. It’s your life, is it not? And...we could be friends. I want to know. I want you to tell me things. If you wouldn’t mind. I don’t mind.” Charlotte found herself again locked in a stare she couldn’t break, and wondered why on earth the heir to a title was talking to her in the front room of a townhouse in St James. “How can I help?” 

There it was. That phrase again. How could she help? In so many ways. And yet Charlotte knew that money would go only so far, and none of them would ever accept charity, and she did not want their relationship built on giving in return for nothing. Her entire life had been as such. She would not demand that of another. So she smiled. “There’s nothing to help.” 

Charlotte closed the distance between them, and placed a kiss on the cheek of Isabella Fitzwilliam for the second time. She lingered just a little longer, shut her eyes and felt the skin beneath her lip with a clarity she did not permit herself with culls. She wanted, for once, to remember the smells around her, and the feel of the woman beneath her lips. She pulled away.

“Thank you, Lady Fitz, for a wonderful afternoon.” 

Charlotte took her leave. 

* * *

 

Charlotte had come as fast as she dared. It was the only place she could think to come – the only place she could think of where she might get help, of the sort she needed. But now she was here, and she didn’t feel any better at all. Still, Isabella had not turned her away, and had listened. Isabella was still sat at her side. Isabella might still be willing to help.

“I feel sick.”

“It’s not your crime.”

“It will be if I don’t save her.” I was always her crime. She’d gone along with it: said nothing. Were her goals really that important? “Entrapment. Rape, ruin.”

“Then let’s go to the Justice now.”

“I’m implicated in all of it. And he won’t want a repeat of last night.” Justice Hunt was not the man for the job he had set out to do, and if he was he was yet to realize the mountain of the task ahead. She had heard the Lord Justice with his head between Lydia Quigley’s legs, and the men of the law neither cared nor cared to help her sort. She had been close enough to the noose once before. Not again. Irrefutable proof of her innocence, of her attempts at redemption – dare she use that word – or nothing at all. “We have to get the girl to him.”

“How?”

Charlotte took a deep breath. “We need someone trustworthy: to bid for her, and take her from the house. Do you know of anyone?”

“I don’t trust a single soul in my circle.”

The answer would ordinarily have stung Charlotte with sympathy, that the woman had lived so alone all this time, without a soul to confide in – truly confide. But she was here for a purpose, and they needed help. Charlotte looked away, pulling up another solution: a favour she hadn’t wanted to ask of the woman. “Then you must go to my Ma on Greek street. She’ll find someone.” Charlotte pulled the bills from her dress. “Here – s’over a hundred pounds. I’ve known men bid two hundred for a virgin. Add to it, if you can. Ma will too.”

Isabella looked at the money, at Charlotte, and was almost overcome. “You trust me to do this?”

I have no choice. You would not endanger me: now I trust you with my family. “Abigail. That’s the girl’s name. Sweet thing. Untarnished by our world. Help her stay that way.”

She meant every word. No girl should be forced to this, not like her, nor her sister. She would not take a girl and push her into their world: not without a choice. This life, her life, was a choice. One she didn’t get. She would not let Lydia Quigley assault this girl. No amount of money, patronage, or standing was worth that.

She watched as Isabella folded away the money, secreting it away. “I shall have to ask my brother for money,” she said, in thought, pulling at her earring.

Charlotte had all but forgotten about the Marquis: about how much of a strain she was actually placing on Isabella.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you.”

“I wouldn’t have agreed if it was too much of an imposition. This girl matters. We will do everything in our power to save her.”

Charlotte nodded. “Thank you.” Her voice sounded weak in her ears. Vulnerable as she placed her trust in a woman she barely knew.

Lady Fitz stood. “Come. Take a turn with me.”

Charlotte hardly felt like walking, but obliged, hooking her arm through the Lady’s and walking the house.

“My brother is in,” began Isabella. “But I will ask him tonight.”

“I’m sorry Lady Fitz I didn’t think what he would do. I just thought –“

“I am in a much better position than you to provide the means to bid for a girl’s flower, am I not? You did right, coming to me. Of course I will help you.”

“The girl will testify. I’m sure of it.”

“So it is also a means to snatch Quigley.”

“Yes.”

The thought hung between them, too hopeful to be truly considered, but thought of all the same. If only they could catch her and rid them of both of their struggles – or some part of them.

“Your mother is on Greek street?”

Charlotte started. “I forgot. You’ve never been.”

“Well, I can’t say I often take my devotions in a nunnery, you’re quite right,” joked Isabella, and to her pleasure, Charlotte chuckled lowly.

“I don’t know why I just assumed you’d know where it was.”

“I feel I ought to be offended that you assume I’ve had every harlot in London.”

Charlotte laughed harder, catching the glint in Isabella’s eye. “Well if you’ve had them and not me, I’d be just a little offended, my Lady.”

“Perhaps if you work hard at your job –“

“Back-breaking work, my Lady.”

“You could earn yourself a few measly pennies from me.”

They had come to stand beneath the ornate main stairwell of the household, laughing at their words. Isabella looked up, and stopped at once as her eyes caught those of her brother. Charlotte followed her gaze, and immediately sobered. He was there only an instant: a reminder of his presence, thought Charlotte, so that Isabella never forgot. And then, he disappeared in the billow of his coat. His interruption brought a stop to their talk, one that allowed Charlotte the excuse of ignoring the place her thoughts had gone at the thought of Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam with every harlot in London and the pang of green at the thought of even the Duchess of Quim having the Lady before her. She wondered, briefly, if the Lady had ever sought the warmth of another – male or female. She was unmarried, after all, and though Charlotte had no reservations about such an unusual standing for a woman of genteel society, there was no doubt that Lady Isabella, in her own circles, was a spinster.

Lady Fitz kept them walking, though did not talk again. Charlotte had been enjoying the company, and the lift in her mood it brought.

“Well, at least he knows I’m doing my guineas-worth.”

Isabella smiled faintly. “Yes, I suppose he does.”

Nothing more was said until she had been escorted to the door. It was Isabella who insisted she leave.

“I’m afraid you must go.”

“Of course, my Lady.”

“Stop with this ‘my Lady’ nonsense. Isabella, please. Or Lady Fitz if you must.” The weight of the gesture was not lost on Charlotte, but Isabella neither regretted nor thought twice about her demand. Charlotte Wells had trusted her enough to entrust her with this role. The least Isabella could do was show friendship: class be damned.

“As you wish.” There was a pause, left for Charlotte to use her name. But she didn’t. “You’ll find my Ma on Greek Street. My brother, Jacob, he’ll be outside. If you struggle, ask around for William North and they’ll see you right to my Pa. Don’t worry about Ma. She’ll be tough, and probably not wanting to speak at all, but tell her it’s from me about Quigley. Tell her I’ve got a way to take her down, and pray that Nance’s there to talk some sense into her. If anything, Pa’ll know how to help.”

Isabella nodded, suddenly feeling the weight of what she was about to do. She was perhaps more nervous than Charlotte realized at going into her home – or maybe Charlotte did realize, and was giving such precise instructions to soothe her fears.

“Get what you can from your brother,” continued Charlotte, lowering her voice. Then, she reached out her hand and took hold of Isabella’s. “It’ll be alright.”

She dropped the hand almost as quick as she had taken it. She took her plumed hat and blue cape from the servant, and swirled out the door, leaving Isabella struck still in her own front hall.

* * *

They had yet to talk about Abigail. There was too much else to discuss. Or everything they seemed to discuss seemed somehow related. She had snuck in, cloak and dagger, to the brothel on Greek street, now she knew where it was, and though she was sure they would have recognised her by face and let her in, still she was apprehensive. William North had once again met her at the door, and as she heard Charlotte make her way through from the kitchen to the parlour, she shed her cloak, and placed it over the back of a chair.

A figure appeared, closing the door behind her.

“Charlotte.”

And so they now sat, upon the same chair as the fire crackled behind them, the room barely lit by the few candles available, though Isabella could see the tired eyes and smudged kohl on Charlotte’s face.

So much had happened and Charlotte didn’t want to begin. She didn’t really want to be here either, so vulnerable in front of Isabella, or to think about all their layers of scheming and plot. She wanted comfort, and warmth, and her mother’s hand and a place to cry in peace – and yet she was too tired to cry any more. There was too much to consider, too much going on all to save her sister, and a girl called Abigail, and to put away Quigley once and for all.

“I choked her. Quigley. Was hoping I’d kill her.”

“Charlotte.”

“Said I was a Quigley not a Wells.” Why was she saying this? It wasn’t like Isabella understood. Those words had hurt more than she’d let on, burned deep inside her. How much had she given for her Ma? For the girls beneath this roof? And for what? And yet why did every move feel selfish, and useless against the turning tide of the world. “What have I done?”

Isabella longed to move closer, if only to comfort. “All that you can.” A lesser woman than Charlotte Wells would have been broken, thought Isabella. A lesser woman would not be here now, talking to me. “If only you had killed her.”

Charlotte looked at her. “I wish Ma hadn’t stopped me.”

“She was right to stop you. But it might have been more pleasurable with your hands around her throat just a little longer – to choke the breath from a fallen angel.”

Though the words were not empty, they were said with a lightness that Charlotte was thankful for. “Quigley was never an angel.”

“No. A fury.” Charlotte smiled through watery eyes, tears that would never come. “Thank you. For coming here. I know it was a risk.”

Isabella wanted to shake her: her reputation was far less important than the well-being of an innocent they were trying to save, and was certainly more important than the well-being of her friend.

“It was nothing.”

“Your reputation-“

“Has long been torn apart by my brother. I could walk in here freely and I’m sure it would merely confirm what lies my brother has already spread.”

Charlotte shifted. “Still, it’s not exactly luxury, but you came anyway, for Abigail, and you didn’t have to. So thank you.”

“And for you. It is your home: surely that’s luxury enough?”

“Well I wouldn’t mind a few golden chairs to sit on now and then,” joked Charlotte, too quick to bite back her wit response. She was almost touched by Isabella’s words, that she would tie herself in so thick with Charlotte and her life all because they had formed some tenuous bond. She was being cruel, but she could not let herself think about Isabella and her kindness. Her life was not one of kindness, and persons like Isabella rarely came along. It was best, she reasoned, not to get too used to kindness.

“I’m only sorry I couldn’t do more,” said Isabella.

“You did all that you could.”

“I should be saying that to you.”

Charlotte looked away. “She’s just another Moll now.”

“It wasn’t your doing.”

“How can you say that? I should have said something, or done something, but all I did was play along like she wanted.”

“You did everything in your power. If you had spoken out, Quigley would have done it anyway.”

Charlotte knew that what Isabella said was logical, and probably exactly how it would have gone down, but nothing the Lady could have said would have made her feel any less guilty at her inaction. “I could’ve tried.”

“We both could have.” Isabella weighed her next words carefully. “We both are tied to Quigley. She holds Damocles over our heads, under which we are powerless.” She paused, staring hard at Charlotte to ensure she was listening. Charlotte sat very still, and didn’t break the gaze that held her. “My secret is a child. A daughter, born when I was very young. She’s at a private boarding school in Chelsea. Sometimes I ride and watch her from the park. I’ve never tried to contact her: that’s how she survives.”

A mother who had never seen her child, nor spoken a word. Charlotte could not imagine the anger her own Ma would have held at those who damned her to such a fate. If she had said earlier, maybe they could protect her. “You must move her. Lydia is vengeful.”

“So is my brother. He bragged this morning, self-satisfied at what he’d done.”

Charlotte looked away. Of course. Blayne. Maybe they both deserved it. No, she amended, never Isabella. But she did. “The girl he raped; she cursed me.”

“It was his crime not yours. And everything he did was in punishment of me.”

And yet Isabella continued to insist it was not her fault, and then blamed _herself._ She knew the relationship between brother and sister was certainly unhealthy – it hadn’t taken much time to figure out there was something sordid there, hidden in the fear and the stiffness that stewed around Isabella at the mere mention of his name – but to blame herself for his actions was hardly the truth, Charlotte was sure.

“How? Why?”

“For rejecting him.” Charlotte understood. “When I was very young, he damned me with his lust. My child – she is his. He doesn’t know.”

“You are not damned.”

“I am”

Nothing she could say would make it any easier. “I’m cursed, you’re damned. What a pair we are.”

The next moments seemed longer than before, drawn out before her as Isabella molded her response. What was she saying? Did it matter – she certainly didn’t want pity from the harlot, but it seemed all she could think was how easy it could be to reach out. All she could think was of their hands, brushing in a cold corridor, and how close they seemed now, even beneath their dresses, in the light of the candles.

“No one has ever touched me since. No one ever will.”

Charlotte shifted closer. Of course: all roads led here, and really it would just be another night for her. But, maybe because it was her own choice, or the glint of jewels, or maybe it was some kind of friendship, beneath everything, or even simply instinct bred of a child whore. Whatever it was, Charlotte leant into the emotion. She did nothing to dissuade the Lady. “Why should you forever be alone. Let me break his spell.”

Ever so gently, Charlotte kissed her. And far from being what she remembered – brutish and biting – it was everything she supposed it should have been. She wondered, briefly, if anyone had experienced this. She wondered if Charlotte was enjoying it.

“I’m sorry”, she said.

“Why?” Why, why, why? Charlotte kept her hand on Isabella’s skin, brushing gently at her cheek. Why would she be sorry?

“I didn’t ask.”

Charlotte almost laughed, but kept her eyes soft. “Most people don’t.” Isabella didn’t reply. “Would you like to kiss me again, Lady Fitz?”

Had she sounded mocking, maybe Isabella Fitzwilliam would have said no; maybe she would have shied away, left in an angry huff that Charlotte would have known was nothing more than a front for her real desires. But Charlotte was nothing if not skilled with people, and she did not _want_ to dissuade Isabella from her desires: the woman had spent far too long doing that to herself. She was an instrument for gratification, and for the first time in a long time, she wanted to fulfill her role with devotion only to Isabella’s satisfaction.

“I...,” and here was where she floundered. She was hardly debating the matter; if she were being honest with herself, she knew exactly what she wanted, but it wasn’t for her to ask. Decorum and sensibility and all the things her brother would say when he found out – because, she knew, he would find out regardless of how well she hid it. She would tell him nothing, but of course he would know, and he would take this from her, too.

Charlotte hadn’t moved from her position, watching with endless patience as even now Lady Fitz refused to look away. This could go on for hours, she knew, but it wasn’t her place to force the issue. This wasn’t a cull, coy and inexperienced. You always knew, with them, what they really wanted. Here, she wasn’t so sure. She could see latent desire, of course she could, but whether or not Isabella wanted _her_ , and was ready for that, Charlotte didn’t know – and the last thing she wanted to do was hurt the Lady.

Her next words, when they came after the dragging silence, were careful.

“Isabella. What do you want?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK i'm sorry I'm sorry. As I mentioned, I've just started my masters course and regardless of all the anxiety and the self-doubt about it, it's also asking me to do things like make a zine in a week and so forth, so I've been super stressed out. Still, I sat myself down tonight and wrote you guys a chapter. It's storming outside, and there's lots of wind and it's very atmospheric. 
> 
> You'll notice I have added another chapter. That's because this new addition hits 6,500 words and I still have about half of what-was-going-to-be-the-third-chapter left to go. So I thought I'd split it. I might not write it tonight cuz it's quite late, but it WILL BE COMING I PROMISE. 
> 
> You'll also notice I'm rewriting the entire plot as of now. Because I want them to be happy. So I'm just taking the basic framework and making it more about those two rather than the other characters. Pls forgive me. 
> 
> Anyway. Enjoy guys. And thank you so much for all the support every comment makes my day, so thank you.

Her foot was peaking out from underneath the covers. Charlotte shifted, tugging at the sheets. Finding them obstructed, she pulled harder until something gave way and she wrapped herself up tighter against the chilled morning air. Nevertheless, she was now awake: eyes closed and her breathing even, but her mind slowly pulling itself together, registering the feel of the sheets and the weight of a body beside her. She loosened the sheets slightly, pushing them back a little towards her bedfellow; her companion groaned lowly and shuffled closer against her back, providing body heat for them both.

It was early and still dark out. They had opened the window last night, the room having become much too hot and stuffy for either to fall asleep comfortably, and the cacophony of the night had mellowed to the lowly yelling of the morning. If she strained, Charlotte could hear the market stalls setting up across the city, the horses passing underneath to pick up last night’s clients, and even the bells of the church tolling. Soon, the Knock-up would be round and the whole street would be up. She’d bet money Pa was sat in the kitchen sorting the wares; and that’s when she decided to rise, needing to ask more questions and get very few answers from him. Needing to not get too comfortable, lest she forgot what she had to do.

With more care than she was used to using, Charlotte attempted to roll out of bed. She thought about rising and swinging her legs out, but Isabella was pressed so close against her back it would surely jolt and disturb her. Instead, she slid her legs over the edge of the bed, feet clenching against the cold and the hairs on her legs prickling. Slowly, she reached down with her toes until they hit the bare wood floor and, using the leverage, scraped her body out from under the covers.

She found herself out in the open air, half hunched over with one hand on the floor to steady herself. She was naked, and very, very cold. She stood, and all thoughts of being quiet having left her, rummaged on the floor for a discarded shift – not caring whose it was, though she knew she had picked her own, for the material was coarse, well-worn and stained. 

The creak of the old wood beneath feet was enough to wake Isabella, still hidden under thin sheets: equally as undressed and much less comfortable showing her unadorned body in full daylight. Isabella turned, shifting in the bed so that she was sat up, hair stilled pinned together ready to be hidden by a towering wig, but a few strands escaping, elegantly disheveled. At the movement, Charlotte turned back to look at her.

“Morning.”

They looked at one another; Charlotte rather un-phased, much used to the morning-after, even as Isabella searched in vain for any signs of regret in the girl or any hope of an answer as to what had happened. At the lack of reply, Charlotte looked away, eyes quickly scanning the floor for any more clothing she could slip on before deciding that before that, she should perhaps go to sit with the lady, if only to offer some physical closeness.

She went to perch on the bed, facing away from Isabella. Neither spoke. Charlotte soon found herself lost in the sounds outside.

“I don’t know what to say.” Isabella’s voice was so very quiet, that Charlotte almost missed it.

“Good morning’ll work,’ she joked.

Isabella smiled. “Yes. Good morning.”

Charlotte looked back at that smile, and noticed for once how it reached the Lady’s eyes; how alight she was, and utterly content, and how her paled skin seemed to shimmer in the slowly rising sun light, and how truly charming she was, utterly bare. If it had been her place – or in her nature – she might have reached out and touched her cheek, as she so desperately wanted to. Instead, she swung her legs onto the bed and crossed them under her as she shuffled closer to Isabella. It was as if they were sisters, mused Isabella, confiding in the morning light all the secrets they daren’t trust to anyone else.

If it weren’t for the sex, mused Charlotte, they might’ve been sisters, poised to whisper under the sheets well into the middle of the day, trapped in each other’s fantasies.

“How're you feeling?” said Charlotte. Isabella turned pink, and she laughed. “It’s alright to say good.”

Isabella looked away, trying to compose herself. “Much better than good.”

If she were anyone else, Charlotte might have indulged the warm, fuzzy feeling in her stomach at the comment, or the swell of pride that invigorated her. “Don’t go stroking my ego, my Lady, or you might be disappointed.”

“You could never be disappointing.”

She was going to have to put a stop to all this sentiment, thought Charlotte, before she began liking it too much. Charlotte smiled, and made to move off the bed.

“Is it early?” asked Isabella, conscious that she really must be going, but unwilling to expose herself.

“Should be waking soon. I’ll help you dress.” Isabella hesitated, watching as Charlotte picked up her discarded shift and stays, ready to lace them on the lady. “Come on, I’ve seen it all before.”

Isabella blushed again, deep and crimson. “Only in candlelight.”

Charlotte hung the garments over the back of the only chair in the room, placed in front of a small toilette. Though it was the last thing she wanted to do as she said her next words, she looked Isabella in the eyes and did not break her gaze.

“And it will be as beautiful now as it was then.” She paused. “Now come here and let me dress you.”

This time, Isabella didn’t blush. In fact, she could nothing more than allow herself a full, unbridled smile. Charlotte tried not to think too hard about it; only that she had meant it, truly, and that she wanted nothing more than to shower the lady with affection, keep her warm and close and protected. If only she could.

Isabella moved, shedding the sheet, and though at first tentative she soon found her feet, walking as was her want with her back straight and head high. If only, thought Charlotte; if only she could relax in her presence, if only Isabella felt she could ever relax. And there, hanging at the end of that thought, was a name she did not want to infect this room, and so she banished it.

Isabella stood before Charlotte, naked as Venus, and Charlotte could do nothing but let her eyes skim the surface of her skin. She watched the goosebumps prickle, and the slightly fidget in her feet as Isabella struggled not to be put out by the gaze: by being seen. Charlotte reached around her, pulling the shift from the back of the chair out from under the precariously balanced stays. Isabella lifted her arms, and Charlotte draped the shift over her.

“Better?”

Isabella smiled somewhat bashfully. Charlotte, for her part, was disappointed at the loss of bare flesh. She smoothed the fabric on Isabella’s shoulders, if only for something to do with her hands; frustrated at the cotton raking against her finger-tips. If only she had stalled, or waited just a little, then perhaps she could have touched that skin just one more time.

(Charlotte was not a fool, and was not one to expect a repeat of the previous night - though even if she wouldn’t admit it she hoped very much for another night with the lady, if only to see that skin.)

It had been just a little too long, and Isabella had noticed the lingering touch of Charlotte smoothing the same piece of clothe over and over. Then, she stilled.

“Kiss me.”

The grip on her shoulders tightened. All this time they had not broken their stare, and even now Charlotte did not want to look away. Instead, she leant in, intending for just a small peck but finding herself unable to pull away once she had begun - and certainly, Isabella did nothing to push her away. Had it not been for the hands on her shoulders, she would have wrapped herself around the harlot and pulled her as close as physic would allow, until nothing remained between them except each other. Instead, she could only nip at her lip: grasp at the air and dissolve into one another.

It was Charlotte who pulled away first, albeit reluctantly and only to breathe. Only a little apart, Isabella chased her, snatching one last kiss that lengthened once more until Charlotte again pulled away. Looked down at Isabella, Charlotte could be nothing but satisfied at the red, bruised lips staring back at her.

She smiled, and Isabella returned it. Charlotte once again reached around her, this time for a petticoat, and once again she draped it over Isabella’s head.

“Will you kiss me again?”

Charlotte grinned, and kissed her lightly. “As often as might please you.” Isabella looked away, unused to the apparent devotion and care yet unable to feel like it was for her alone. How many had Charlotte said just those words? She didn’t want to think about it – and so she didn’t.

“Turn around.” Isabella did so, and Charlotte grabbed the stays and worked the bodice onto Isabella’s torso. Then, she worked at the laces, hands unwavering and practiced.

“You have a steady hand.”

“I’ve done this many times before,” replied Charlotte lightly, not thinking much of it. There was a pause, and it was then that Charlotte realized perhaps the implications of her words.

“Oh.”

“I have to tie my own stays.” Of course, thought Isabella, laced down the front so one can lace oneself. 

Why was she offering an explanation? Charlotte didn’t know. Still she pulled at the laces, not too tight, working them up Isabella’s back.

“And others.” A pause. “For others.”

“Yes.”

Having finished her work on the stays, Charlotte stopped, considering her next move before taking the risk and placing a gentle kiss to the nape of Isabella’s neck, moving away the hair. She felt the lady shudder beneath her lips, arch backwards slightly into the embrace, and Charlotte was satisfied that she had not lost favour.

She kept Isabella close, resting her head in the space next to Isabella’s right ear.

“Are you okay?”

Isabella turned around slightly to look at her, their faces dangerously close. “I have never been happier.” Charlotte believed it. “And you?”

Charlotte considered how best to reply: whether she even could reply in the way that she wanted. “I’d hope to never leave this room, if we could.” Her voice was soft but strong. She forced herself to continue before Isabella could interrupt. “If I were someone else, I’d have none but you.” Isabella let out a shaky breathe. “But I’m still a whore.”

Isabella turned around, watched as Charlotte pulled away and hunted around for her paniers, distracting herself.

“You’re more than a whore.”

“Maybe. But I got a living, and not one I’m about to chuck away.” Finding the paniers, Charlotte stood straight, looking over at Isabella. “I’m still a whore.”

“But you would be with me?” The fear trembled at the back of her throat. The silly fear that perhaps last night had been nothing but another lie, something else cruelly taken from her: hope of redemption. There was only once answer Charlotte could give, and none she would have rather given:

“Yes.”

Isabella visibly relaxed. Charlotte continued to help her dress, draping petticoat after petticoat and beautifully silken fabric. She could have sworn on her Ma’s life there hadn’t been this many layers last night, but then perhaps she had been so enraptured she'd not noticed in the moonlight. Clothing her was infinitely less satisfying than undressing her, she surmised.

With the wig at last placed, and Isabella busying herself with her facial preparations – as best she could do with the limited products to hand – Charlotte herself dressed, long since gone numb to the cold in her thin shift. Having far fewer layers, and not having to be seen for at least a few more hours, she did not bother with reams of petticoats and instead found a shawl to cover her shoulders, content with dressing only in her minimal under-garments. Fully dressed and now at a similar height in their heels, the two shared one last kiss before they opened the door; and though the kiss wasn’t as smooth with the added weight on Isabella’s head, it was none the less passionate for it, and all Charlotte could do was will herself not to crawl under the lady’s petticoats one more time: for good luck, she reasoned.

For a Marquise, Isabella was remarkably lacking in self-restraint when it came to these matters, and it was once again Charlotte who pulled away, giving her one last smile before open the door of her room.

The two walked downstairs, not trying to be quiet. It struck Isabella as contrary to the goal of keeping things secret, her usual nature, but then here, in this house, she was safe, and in this house their were no secrets of sex – and somehow, that made her relax. As they reached the bottom of the stairs it was Charlotte who caved, pulling her round for one last kiss – perhaps the last she would ever receive from the Lady. Maybe that was what had broken her restraint in full view of the kitchen, though she barely noticed Nancy and Pa watching. Pulling away reluctantly, they walked towards the front door, hands skirting one another in the space between them, both caught in a flush of schoolgirl giddiness.

“I don’t know if I’m to offer you payment.”

“Not unless you would offend. It was a gift. One I took great pleasure in giving.”

Isabella smiled bashfully. It had been a stupid question, for she knew without a doubt that Charlotte would not accept payment; and yet it had meant an awful lot to hear her say so. She left far more satisfied than she arrived, too lost in her reveries to think of what was to come. She could only think of what had happened, and how she would have given all her jewels to repeat it.

Charlotte, for her part, watched her leave with a little too much fondness in her eyes. Of course she would have never accepted payment, and yet she alone knew what that meant. Or perhaps not. She had told before that this was her trade. She knew Isabella would appreciate the size of her remark, and in knowing that, she was filled with more hope and affection than before.

She walked into the kitchen, finally noticing Nancy and Pa at the table as she reached for breakfast.

“Will your companion not have breakfast with us?” asked Pa.

“Culls come to brothels for something warmer and wetter than bread.” William laughed at that, as Nancy looked at her knowingly.

“She’s not my cull. Nor is she my beloved. Friendship takes many faces.” That sounded weak even to her own ears. She changed the subject to something far less pleasant. “Lydia will come for me.”

Nancy sobered. “As surely as night turns to day.”

But perhaps it was less Lydia she now feared, but Blayne: and what he might do to Isabella.

* * *

Despite the space afforded them by their private box, they were still in full view of the theatre: on display as much as the performers on the stage. What it was, Charlotte couldn’t say. She had long since zoned out, and besides, the noise of the spectators was far louder than that of those on stage. She had spent the last half an hour with eyes fixed on the stalls, the spectators standing and heckling; she had spent her time watching the balcony, and who was seeing who, who was sat next to who and who had a new dress.

She was trying desperately to forget who was sat next to her - not so close that they were touching but close enough that she could feel the air move between them. Neither of them were moving much – in fact, all she _could_ feel was their distinct attempts to _not_ move; and as much as she wanted the rabble beneath (or the rabble opposite, she wasn’t fussy) to distract her, nothing could distract her from the faint brush of Isabella’s dress against her exposed forearm.

Isabella herself wasn’t even sure what it was they had come to see. It had been so simple to ask – in her head, at least – if Charlotte wanted to attend. She was going to have to go regardless: to be seen, as her brother so loved to keep up appearances, and if their talk this morning had rattled her she was under no circumstance permitted to show it. So she had asked Charlotte. Because Charlotte was in the area, and because Charlotte at least wouldn’t talk about something odious, and Charlotte would make her smile and Charlotte would protect her and Charlotte would be all the things she needed - and yet she had somehow completely overlooked that Charlotte, too, would be seen, and in public, and to be honest she had sent the letter of invitation without hope of a reply.

But Charlotte had arrived, alone and without escort, and “run into her” in the foyer amidst all the others flaunting their wares and attempting to be the woman of the season. Isabella had always shown her face and remained only on the fringes, but tonight she had stood with eager eyes hoping that Charlotte might arrive. And she had: looking spectacular, as was her wont.

Charlotte had received the letter timely, reading it in the hallway and protecting its contents: yet it had been Pa who told her to go. And so she had. She’d been working all day – she was tired, and her mind was only running over what might happen to Ma. Home felt more oppressive each day, drifting further and further away from any kind of hope. Perhaps she had wanted a trip out, though whether or not she was to be paraded she did not know. She was accustomed to being an ornament, though if Isabella viewed her as such it was with much less open adoration. The two had met, and after subdued greeting, made their way to their seats. It had been, Charlotte noted, Isabella who led the way, and she had thread her arm through Charlotte’s, and offered her a chair as she sat down. So perhaps she was being paraded, a little ember of pride that burned in Isabella – and though she didn't know it, she would not be mistaken for thinking so.

The two had not spoken since her arrival, however, and now the silence was becoming heavy as neither knew what to say. The lack of any guiding principle had left Isabella stranded, not having thought any further than actually asking Charlotte; and Charlotte was not sure whether she was here as a friend or a companion of other sorts. It seemed imprudent to ask.

As the scenes unfolded on stage, Lady Macbeth scrubbing her hands of blood, it was Isabella who broke the silence.

“My brother took me to Bedlam today.” Her voice was soft to hide her words to any who might be listening, and Charlotte thought she might have heard wrong, jumbling the phrases up with the noise of the theatre. But she was sure she hadn’t when she stole a glance, and saw Isabella’s hands grip together tightly.

It was perhaps perverse that her first thought was of how tired Isabella must be, kept up at all hours by their deeds and then dragged through her brother’s tortures.

“What did he say?” She could not keep the threat from her voice, the anger bubbling underneath as if she had the power to do anything about it.

“That I was to be imprisoned there if I did not tell him the truth. It was a threat – administered with less guile than his usual tone,” said Isabella.

“He can’t do that.”

“He can and he will, Ms. Wells.”

Charlotte did not reply immediately. “What did you tell him?” She almost feared the answer, but as she finally allowed herself to look over at the Lady on her right, she saw only pleasure in her face at remembering what she had said.

“That a lady had sucked his venom from me. That it was true, and that this was my secret: a game of flatts.”

Charlotte could not help her smirk and the swell of pride that filled her. “That was reckless.”

Isabella looked over at her, and met her gaze. “Yes.”

Neither of them should have drawn satisfaction from such dangerous actions, and yet they couldn’t help it in their war against the world. A small victory, at least: one that would not hold for very long, but enough to keep their spirits high for a while longer.

“I thought the theatre might distract me.”

“And has it?”

“Not as well as I would hope.” Isabella looked over at the balconies across the room, watching her peers. She, at least, remained far removed from their endless debaucheries, though with her own, more recent actions, she doubted she had the right to say even that. “I can feel their eyes on me. They always watch, and I dread to think what would happen if one were to slouch one's posture.”

Charlotte did not smile. “The world would burn.” She too, shifted her gaze to the other patrons. “S’the currency we trade in, and some are better at it than others.”

“Are you?”

“I’m as good as I must be.”

Isabella looked down at her feet, wringing her gloved hands in her lap. “Forgive me.”

“For what?”

“I didn’t think before I spoke.”

Charlotte laughed. “You can’t be watching every word you say –“

“I have spent a whole life doing that.”

“– and if you have questions I’d rather you ask them,” placated Charlotte. “You’ll not offend me so easily, but I’ll always be what I am no matter who’s parading me around.”

“Do you think that I want you for a pet? A sculpture to be on display only when I desire it?”

“Is that not what I am? No matter what your intentions, and I know they're good enough, I’ll always be a living sculpture.”

“I would be honoured to have you, but I do not want to own you,” replied Isabella, her voice terribly quiet.

“You have me already, my Lady.” The words had come out before she had a chance to check them, and if she felt seen before she felt positively exposed now. But Charlotte had always been good at what she did, and reined the conversation with her next words:

“But I’ll always be a harlot, no matter what you might want of me.”

Isabella shifted next to her, looking over at Charlotte; her eyes filled with intent. “If you thought you might disabuse me of something you are wrong. You have told me enough time, as if it might change the way we speak." Isabella paused. "You will always be Charlotte Wells, and I would not dare to ask anything else of you. That you are here tonight, with me, is more than enough currency.”

Charlotte hazarded a glance over at her companion, her eyes quickly flitting away at the intensity beside her. Isabella continued.

“I would let you be.”

“Even as I am?”

“Yes.”

“It would be hard.”

“I would bear it.”

“If I wanted to stop?”

“I would keep you as a man might a lover. And even if you did not, I would make you kept.”

“I would never accept it.”

“I shall make you gifts so you have no choice.”

Charlotte could not help but smile. She looked down at her lap. “You know all the things to say.”

“So do you.”

“I always say things because I have to, and I’ve become above all good at that. You say them because you can.” Charlotte lowered her voice. “I’d consider it. I couldn’t leave home, but with Ma –“ she stopped. Continued. “With Ma not with us, someone will have to run things.”

Isabella did not want to sound hopeful at the expense of her misfortune, but couldn’t keep it out of her voice. “And you could withdraw from…duties?”

“If I wanted.”

Silence fell between them once more, both considering the implications of the conversation they had just had. If they had been anywhere less private Charlotte might have been fearful, but if anyone had heard their words over the din of the stage, it had been only them in their privacy.

“The threat of Bedlam has given you courage,” said Charlotte.

Isabella considered her next words carefully.

“It is you who has given it to me.”

They forced their waning attentions to the stage, and attempted to follow the final act as best they could. And though their minds desperately wanted to wander both held their thoughts in check, hanging onto the scenes with desperation: reluctant to think any further than the Shakespeare on the stage. Too much had already been said tonight, and Charlotte wanted nothing more than to run back to Pa and get back to work; there was so much to sort out, and Lucy was fluttering away and Ma was still in jail and she still had so much to fear from Quigley. But Isabella Fitzwilliam held her fast, whether the Lady knew so or not. And so they both stayed until the end of the infernal performance, waiting till the very last before they rose and made their way to the foyer.

As they walked down the stairs, delicately but well-practiced in their dresses, Isabella was fixed upon a thought in her mind she wasn’t sure she could voice; and yet faced with the prospect of being separated from Charlotte, the two of them hovering in the atrium not knowing how to say an appropriate goodbye when not a word had been spoken for an hour at least – Isabella found the words came easily then.

“Come back with me.” 

Charlotte knew the strength it had taken for her to say those words and yet she could not accept. “Not tonight, my Lady.” Charlotte’s voice was soft, and though the Lady’s face fell at the words, she took hope from the kindness in the harlot’s eyes. “I think perhaps you have taken enough risks for one evening.” 

“Charlotte...”

“Don’t protest.” She couldn’t stand it if she protested: she’d give in. “I will see you soon, my Lady.” 

“I told you-“

“In public, my Lady.” 

Isabella tugged at her gloves. “Even then.” 

The crowd bustled around them, stood to the side as they were on the steps. Charlotte hid the soft glow of pleasure that churned beneath her stays, closing her eyes. “Isabella...”

Lady Fitz reached out, grasping at Charlotte’s wrist that hung loose at her side. She gave it a short squeeze, stroking a glove covered thumb across the bare skin - a gesture that took mere seconds yet made Charlotte’s skin burn. 

“I don’t want to leave you tonight,” murmured Isabella. 

Charlotte looked at the Lady, their eyes caught in one another, showing nothing but care. “I’ll be fine.” 

Isabella looked like she was about to protest: it was not Charlotte she was worried about, but herself. She did not want to be alone. But the two were interrupted by an acquaintance.

“Lady Fitzwilliam? What a pleasure.” 

“Lady Fraser.” 

Charlotte noticed the stiffness in her companion’s posture, and though she wanted nothing more to stand by her Lady, if she did not leave now she never would, and that was far more dangerous than anything else they had risked that night. She shifted, brushing lightly at the Lady’s arm as she slid away by way of goodbye, the arts of her trade serving her well. She knew - she hoped - Isabella would understand as she slipped into the night. It was not her place, here by her Lady’s side. And when, that night, she returned to her Ma’s, the girls hard at work even in the absence of their Abbess, Charlotte would wonder, running over the books with Pa as she struggled to pull everything together as her Ma rotted in Newgate - and when, after all that, she pulled her sheets up to her neck, too thin against the cold - and when she had put out the flames and lost herself to the sounds of the house, the creaking wood and beds scraping the walls - then, and only then, would she ask herself when Isabella has become her lady. 

* * *

“You came home alone last night.” Charlotte almost groaned into her oats. She did not need this teasing. “From the theatre.” Nancy made herself comfortable on a chair, spinning it round and sitting on it backwards, chin resting on the back. “Not very good at your job, are you?” 

“Any news of Ma?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

Charlotte ate a mouthful. “I’ve been thinking. About Lady Fitz.”

“Don’t we know it.”

“Hush.”

“Let’s have it then. What have you been thinking of about Lady Fitz - other than how to get rid of them pesky stays.” 

Nancy was smirking, and were she in a better mood perhaps Charlotte would have indulged her. As it was, she did not. 

“Quigley’s trapped between the legs of the Lord Justice. I think it’s about time I pay him a visit.” 

Nancy raised an eyebrow. “Ain’t we using him for your Ma?” Charlotte sat back in her chair, chewing on the spoon in her mouth. “There’s no guarantee he’ll help either of them.” 

Charlotte removed the spoon from her mouth. “Better to try. I’ve got enough to speak with him - in any case, our best bet with Ma is getting to Lord Hunt.” 

“He won’t help,” said Nancy, with not a little bite. “It was him what put her there and make no mistake he’ll keep her.” Nancy paused. “Even your Ma knows that.”

Charlotte closed her eyes. “How was she?” she asked, voice quiet. 

“Resigned. She knows what she did.” 

“Why’d she do it, Nance?”

Charlotte knew full well why her Ma has done it, and knew she would’ve done the same. There was a time when she resented what her Ma would do for Lucy, but maybe she would’ve done the same if it ever came to it. She knew she would’ve. But why she had to leave them all, it wasn’t fair. Charlotte wanted to scream. It wasn’t fair. 

* * *

If anyone had told Charlotte Wells she’d return to Quigley’s willingly she would have laughed, and yet as she walked into the main foyer she felt not a bit afraid. She knew why she was here, and she would not leave until it was done.

Every week he came at the same time, and every week he took tea in the parlour, and sometimes happened upon a game of cards to play before his appointment with Ms. Quigley. So she knew for a fact he would be here, waiting for his tea and being so kindly entertained by the other ladies of the house; a group Charlotte was not so long ago a part of and, as far as she knew, he did not know of her dismissal.

She did not wait for introduction. Charlotte strode into the pastel-decorated parlour that she had, deep down, always despised, and sat herself opposite the Lord Chief Justice, her hat still placed on her head. She busied herself with removing her gloves as he watched. Before he could raise complaint, she spoke.

“Chief Justice. Would you care for a game of cards?”

He looked as if he might protest, but finding nothing totally disagreeable with the offer he accepted. Charlotte beckoned over a girl not completely paralyzed with the shock of her arrival, and demanded a pack of cards. Duly delivered, she began to deal.

“Can we talk, Chief Justice?”

“What of?”

“The Marquis of Blayne.” She did not falter as she dealt their hands. She guessed it would be better to dive straight into matters.

The Chief Justice, for his part, looked surprised. “What of him?”

His guard was up, and as Charlotte picked up her hand, he did the same, eyes watching her. She still had her hat on, poised as if ready to leave in a moment. All of a sudden, he quite regretted his decision to play cards with Charlotte Wells.

“I’d like to talk about him and his sister, the Lady Isabella.”

Charlotte played her card. “I know them well,” he replied, playing his own.

“He threatened her with Bedlam, and much more. I want to stop that, and I think you can help me.”

“I’m not going to interfere with his private life. What the Marquis does in his house-“

“Is like what you do here, isn’t it? It’s all private – that is, until someone tells.” Charlotte put down her cards. “I don’t have much on you, Chief Justice. You’re a powerful man and no doubt could destroy me as easy as you’d stain white gloves, but I’m willing to bet you’d like to know who’s going about the town murdering girls.”

The Chief Justice inhaled sharply. “What do you know of that?”

“Quigley knows an awful lot – as do I. It’s our business to know things. So I propose an exchange. I tell you what I know, and you remove the Marquis from England.”

Had anyone else been asking such an outrageous thing, the Chief Justice might have laughed in their face; certainly, he wouldn’t have believed them. But one look into Charlotte Wells’ eyes and he knew she was neither bluffing nor joking. It was his turn to put down his hand, their game long forgotten.

“You say Quigley knows?”

“Enough. But she won’t tell, as you well know.”

“And if you’re lying?”

“You’ll have to trust that I’m not. I’ll deliver you the proof and the evidence of the men who’re murdering about your city, and you get me what I want.”

“And how do you expect me to remove a Marquis?”

Charlotte stood up, not forgetting her gloves resting on the table. “You’ll think of something. I’d think the men connecting with death in this might provide such a cover – but I can’t do all your work for you. You might’nt want to mention this to Quigley: she won’t be too pleased at me calling, and you’d lose an afternoon of pleasure.”

* * *

 Lady Fitzwilliam had not yet been properly introduce to Justice Hunt, and yet she knew enough from Charlotte to know he was the man she needed to speak to on this account.

She wasn’t entirely sure what it was that had compelled her to take action all of a sudden, considering her own plight was also precarious and in need of assistance - but then she had always been too feeling, and on this account she hoped she might hold the key.

She was led swiftly through his dwellings – no doubt on account of her status, and though it wasn’t often she flaunted her class, in this situation it was absolutely paramount she play her part well.

The Justice stood as she entered his office.

“Lady Fitzwilliam,” he said, somewhat startled by her arrival.

“Please, sit Justice Hunt.” He did so. She remained standing. “I won’t keep you long.”

“How can I help you?” Hunt stumbled over his words, unsure of what to do.

“I have a few a questions regarding a case of yours and I wonder if you could help me. A Ms. Wells.” The Justice shifted in his seat; Isabella noted his discomfort. “Can you help?”

Hunt pushed his glasses further up his nose to keep them from slipping. “What is your interest?”

She realized at once he was asking because he was scared: fearful that he had made the wrong decision, and was now going to pay the price. Isabella decided to be honest. “I come as a friend of the Wells’. They have asked for my help, and so I’ve come to you. As the man in charge of the sentencing – “

“I’m sorry Lady Fitzwilliam, but it has already been carried out.”

Isabella looked away. Even now, even with her best intentions there was nothing she could do right. Did she hold any power at all? What could she effect but more misery for Charlotte, and then she considered how stupid she had been in coming, as if Charlotte and her girls – her family – had not already come to ask for a reprieve. All this she hid from her face, trying not to let her despondency grow.

“She is dead?”

Perhaps it was something in her voice, or stature, or some element of remorse from Justice Hunt that prompted his next confession. Whatever it was, Isabella did not question it, nor was she presumptuous enough to consider that it might have been due to anything she herself had done. Her voice or her stature had no effect she was sure; more likely, the man just wanted someone to tell, and to not be hated for a deed he knew, regardless of the law, had not been justice.

“No.” Isabella snapped to attention in shock. “She is alive. Transported, but alive.”

“She’s not hanged?”

“It was the best I could do, my Lady, that I can assure you. I had to carry out the sentence.”

“Yes,” she replied. Isabella was distracted by the news. “You’re sure she’s alive?”

“I set her on the cart myself, under the cover of night, though she protested.”

“Yes.” No doubt that she did, thought Isabella. She was banished from England forever, with no hope of ever seeing her girls again; was it truly better to be alive when for all purposes she would live like the dead?

Isabella made to leave. “Thank you, Justice Hunt. You’ve been very kind.” She added it almost as an afterthought, lost to her plans and in her shock.

The Justice, under no illusions, expected no more praise from the Lady than the thanks he had received.

* * *

Isabella took a carriage straight to Greek Street, not caring in the least who saw her. She all but blustered in, stumbling into the kitchen in a most un-aristocratic manner. Nancy, Charlotte, Pa, Jason and some of the girls were gathered, taking dinner and a drink before the evening’s entertainments. When she entered, Charlotte shot up from her position.

“Isa-My lady.”

“She’s alive.” Silence. “She’s alive,” she repeated, with more restraint.

Charlotte looked around the room. The others looked equally as uncomprehending – or rather, not daring to let themselves understand what she could be referring to.

“Who?” asked Charlotte, voice almost unheard over the noise of the streets outside.

“Your mother. She’s not dead. She’s.” Isabella hadn’t planned this far, how she was going to break the news. She didn’t know the proper way of talking. One look at Charlotte, however – she dared not look at the others, who she barely knew in any case and who she was sure harboured her ill will of some kind – told her that whatever she said would be enough. “She’s alive.”

“Is this a joke?” It was Nancy who asked, her voice rough.

Isabella kept her eyes on Charlotte. “No. I went to see the Justice. She’s transported. It’s not…she can never come back. But she’s alive.”

The room fell silent, and after a while Isabella wondered whether she should leave. But as she began to look away, and fidget towards the door, Charlotte let out a gasp as if the movement had roused her from sleep.

“Oh.”

Isabella stayed. “I’m sorry.”

Charlotte let out a bark of laughter. “Sorry?” She strode towards Isabella, coming close and very much in her personal space. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” she all but whispered. Around them, Nancy had roused herself and was talking animatedly, and Pa had stood, pushing through the girls to find the good stuff; but for the two women, it was only each other, oblivious.

“Thank you,” said Charlotte.

“For what?” Isabella desperately wanted to touch her or to be touched. But they were in company, and despite the desperation, she refrained. Even so, she wanted just to reach out, even to touch just a finger, or a wrist, or anything. Anything at all.

Charlotte kissed her then. Just briefly. A peck on the lips. Almost so brief no one would have noticed, except Nancy was watching and so was her Pa, standing next to them with mugs filled by a thumb of gin. Charlotte looked over at him and the grin he was sporting – whether for them or for the fortunate news – and grinned back, grabbing both mugs and handing one to Isabella.

“I hope this is alright,” she teased.

Isabella smiled. It’s perfect, she thought. Absolutely wondrous.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we come to a close. Thank you for sticking with it; thank you to the lovely soul who gave me the prompt; thank you thank you. 
> 
> This is the only one where I've taken a slight historical liberty. I've just conflated the entire 18th century. Robert Peel's police force (aka The Peelers) were slightly later than when the show is set (as evidenced by the fact the Hunt aka our Fielding brothers stand in) hasn't created a proxy police service yet. But I liked the insult. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the final instalment! I do take other prompts, but I can't promise they'll be finished in a timely manner. I don't often open up my prompt box because I'm so busy, but I'm trying to get back into regularly writing and they will always get filled out that I CAN promise you.
> 
> Thank you!

Life was, at the moment, going to the dogs. If she were the betting type - the black boots placing bets on the horses, she being one of the horses – she wasn’t sure she’d bet on herself.

Nancy was holding Lucy against the wall tight in her grasp. Her sister was fighting and yelling to get out, but she trusted Nancy’s grip, and her own quick reactions if Lucy managed to escape. She hadn’t seen her sister in a month or two, and this wasn’t how she had imagined their reunion; nor was it how she imagined asking for Lucy’s help in her plans. Still, she thought, stood between Lucy and the man who was very nearly stabbed to death by Lucy’s violent hand: she could use this.

“We’re leaving,” she said, over the sound of Lucy’s yelling. Nancy struggled to find her balance as Lucy squirmed.

“What about him?” asked Nancy, eyes on Lucy as she tried to calm her down.

“He’s not going anywhere tied up like that.”

Charlotte lead the way out as Nancy gently coaxed Lucy to follow. Once through the door, Charlotte closed it behind them, locking the man in the room – a man with a name, and a face, she thought, and a man who deserved neither. She turned back to look at Lucy, coming close and stroking her face. “Can you take Luce back home?” she asked, voice soft.

“What about you?” replied Nancy, standing back as Lucy fell into Charlotte’s arms.

“It’s about time someone paid for this mess.”

Muttering comforts to Lucy and reluctant to let her go, she entrusted her to Nancy. “Take care of her Nance.”

* * *

The day was long underway and the house busy, but for the moment Charlotte had found a little time to herself, managing to escape to the kitchen. There she found Lucy, sat in her stays reading one of her numerous Fleet writers – something Charlotte hadn’t seen her do in months.

“You alright?” asked Charlotte, slumping down into her chair.

Lucy didn’t reply at first, turning her page, and Charlotte didn’t press. Not exactly subdued, Lucy had certainly become more considered. She always was a woman of far more sensibility than herself, and she knew why Ma had waited so long to show Lucy to the world. No matter how unfair it had been, she knew why Ma had been so reluctant. Ma hadn’t hid her from it at all, not even when she was young, but Lucy got schooling, and music. So had she, but just enough to make her acceptable, and just enough to ply her trade with the best of them. Most of her learning had been done on the streets: in the beds of men and women who didn’t want her to play the piano. They wanted her cunny, and her face, and they didn’t really want her at all.

It had been Lucy that had given her books, and words, and a love of music – though she’d never admit it. And in return, Charlotte had grabbed what she could from the houses of suitors. She had brought back pineapples, and sugar, and bananas, and the latest sheet music, and whatever else she could. It wasn’t fair that Lucy got to wait so long, and in her darkest moments she couldn’t say she didn’t hate her just a little for that, but always knew: that if she didn’t get to wait, and Ma didn’t get a choice at all, at least they could gift Lucy what neither of them were blessed to receive.

And yet it had been Lucy who’d had the short end. Again. There was nothing about this life that made it easier, but Lucy was stronger than she knew, and Charlotte knew she’d be alright in the end. If anything, she had the girls around her to make sure of that; Charlotte didn’t doubt for a second that any of them would give themselves to protect one of their own.

“Been better,” came the reply.

“Trying to kill someone’ll do that.”

“Cunt deserved it.”

“I know.”

Lucy was still looking at her pages, but she wasn’t reading it, turning six pages at once at a pace that made it look like she might be trying to concentrate.  

“Thanks,” began Lucy. “For not letting me kill him.”

Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Would’ve caused more trouble, wouldn’t it?”

“I'd never've let you."

“I’m getting a reputation of almost killing men.”

“You've a fast hand that strikes before it thinks. Don’t think that’ll stop business with your face.”

Lucy finally pushed away her pages. They weren’t often affectionate, but they had their ways and understandings. Lucy pushed back her chair from the table to better face her sister.

“So.” Business voice on. Charlotte followed the change: family time over. “You’d never have let me – did it work?”

Charlotte nodded. “The Chief Justice, if he keeps his word – “

“How likely is that?”

“I have it under control, Luce.”

“So how’ve you got his word?”

“I’ve got what I need. I’m not making the same mistakes we always make. I’m just missing one thing.”

“You managed to get the Chief Justice to expel the Marquis of Blayne from England?”

“He’ll be off to Paris, with a sizeable sum and a government post I should think.”

“Well now there’s some good news,” chimed a voice. Nancy had let herself into the house, followed by a couple of the girls lost in their own conversation. Nancy took a seat beside Lucy. “So now what?”

Charlotte shrugged. “I don’t have the power to alter the legal side.”

“Ask the Chief Justice again. You did give him a suitable scapegoat for a killer. And pushed the real killers transported,” reminded Nancy.

“Transported to Paris,” said Lucy, skeptically.

“Still transported.”

“That’s exactly why I can’t ask him Nance. It’s not to do, going back to him. I’ve got to find some other way to get Isabella her money. And get her daughter back.

Nancy pushed her chair back on two legs, rocking herself slightly. “That’s a lot to do. Where’s the kid?”

“No clue. Could be half way to Spitalfields for all I know.”

“Daughter of a Lady oughta narrow it down.”

“Alright so it’s not Spitalfields - more like Maryle-bone. Still have no clue where, and how, to get in to see her”

The trio sat in silence for a while, stewing in their thoughts. There wasn’t much to be done. So she had managed to remove Blayne from the equation, but she hadn’t done much more than that. And she wanted to try and keep things hidden from Isabella – though she doubted the Lady could fail to notice her brother flying off to France. She still had so much more to do.

Nancy stood up. “I can’t help with all your problems - you two are like your Ma that way - but I can do some good for you. Wait here, and don’t go asking round for me. I’ll be back in good time.”

* * *

 

If Charlotte had hoped to never seen Blayne again she was once again disappointed, a fact that did not surprise her in the least. To be ambushed in the street, however, she was most surprised at, and certainly, she had not expected the great Marquis to venture into her quarters, catching her on the Strand out by Charing. It hadn’t been her pleasure, to grabbed by the busy junction as she attempted to navigate the carriages by foot, and yet she found herself in the throng pushed against the statue of King Charles I, wondering again at the indifference to her plight from those nearby.

“My Lord,” she began, the words pushed from her throat in a breathe as she struggled to right herself.

“Ms. Wells, what a pleasant surprise.” The noise around them was infuriating, oppressive as the man looming over her with all the power the land had invested in him simply by the fortune of his birth. She could do nothing but wait, and to play her cards in as delicate a manner as she could invest.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asked.

“I suppose you thought perhaps you might never see me again.”

“Last we met you left me to seduce your sister; it wouldn’t be so much of a guess to think we’d never see one another again.”

“Ah yes, I did didn’t I? A job you have performed admirably, I might add.”

“I aim to please.”

“That you do. Your profession I should think.” The Marquis pulled her roughly at the arm, forcibly hooking hers through his as he ventured to lead her through the thoroughfare and back to his sedan. “And yet I have to wonder if you have been doing anything else, as of late, aside from that little game I set you?”

“Besides my trade?”

“Aside from that, yes. Venturing into the legal practice, perhaps, or blackmail?”

Blayne’s voice was light as he all but dragged her to his transport. Charlotte could not, under any circumstances, allow him to drag her into relative seclusion, for she knew the consequences of that. In such desperation, a drowning man grabs at reeds.

“That always seemed more your area.” The grip on her arm tightened painfully. “My Lord,” she added as an afterthought.

“Honestly, you women should learn not to aggravate me,” joked the Marquis, with little mirth.

“To punish me won’t earn you much reproach, but your sister requires finesse,” replied Charlotte, bitterly.

“Don’t be vulgar.”

They had reached the chair, and Blayne was trying with his might to lead her into confinement, but she would not go, straining against his indications. Her arm throbbed and would most certainly bruise; such a reaction from men was not something she was unaccustomed to, and so she found the strength to hold her ground.

“But it’s true though, isn’t it My Lord. Mustn’t show the signs on her, but I’m free game to rough up. Is that it?”

“A lady shouldn’t speak out of turn.”

“Or her mind neither. But if there’s one thing we’re sure to agree on, My Lord,” spat Charlotte, finally managing to wrench herself free from his grip, “it’s that I’m no lady.”

The two combatants stood facing one another, Blayne holding his cane with such ferocity Charlotte thought it might snap.

“You’re wisen.”

“And you’re a brute.”

“You wound me.”

Charlotte let out a hollow laugh. “You can mock me all you want, Sir; I’ve heard it all before and worse.” She turned to leave while she could – but something held her back: a carriage racing past them and sending a gust of wind their way. Holding her skirts from the mud she had no hands left to hold her hat, now lost to the streets. She faced the Marquis once again:

“I don’t have a lot in this world, my Lord – not any power to speak of, not like you do. I’d venture not a woman in the land does. But I do have one thing that I use right well, just like Ma taught, and if it’s all I’ve got then it’s all I have, and I’ve used it just well for my purposes. I might be a whore, and a harlot, and maybe even a witch if you want, but I’m a whore who took your land, and your money, and your sister, with nothing but my quim.”

Blayne looked at her, defiant and angry, though he could find not the right words to say that wouldn’t end in a public scene – something he couldn’t afford in his present state.

“Goodbye, my Lord. May your prick find some other woman to bruise.”

* * *

Lydia Quigley’s place was the sort of place Nancy would only visit in her nightmares. But then, there was a lot she’d do for the Wells’ girls, and a lot more besides. And so it was with this thought that she let herself in to Lydia Quigley’s brothel, and waited for the arrival of its Abbess.

The décor, for one, was personally offensive to her. No one needed that many flowers. She refused to sit down, pacing the parlour with her cane in hand, feeling her very presence contaminate the empty niceties with great satisfaction.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to wait long for the great be-wigged matron to appear, with all her usual pomp and circumstance. A great reader of people, Nancy noted with glee Lydia’s surprise; Nancy had not ever, not once, visited Lydia Quigley. In fact, most of their interaction had been through the intermediary of the Wells’ matriarch, fueled by fire. Now though, it was only Nancy. The thought made her clench: how she would’ve teased her for coming here, walking between pastel chairs and bouquets of roses – how unlike her own place.

She pushed the thoughts from her mind and turned to face Quigley. She waited, until Lydia seemed to realize it would be herself who had to make the first move.

“Nancy Birch.” Nancy didn’t move an inch: waiting. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“’bout as pleasurable as you’d find a branch of birch on your back, I’d think.” Nancy never was one for formalities, or pretense. In anyone else, Lydia might have admired it.

“So what do you want?”

“I don’t like asking people for things, but with you I’m making an exception - on behalf of the Wells sisters.”

“Are they well?” asked Lydia, voice saccharine.

“You know fuck well they’re not, and you’re not half to blame for it.”

“If you’re just going to insult me –“

“I’ll insult you all I want. I’m here for information only you can provide, and you’re gonna give it to me on account of you being exposed to the law as of late.”

“I think you are mistaken. I am as unscathed as one might be in any dwelling but your own.”

“At least I service well, and know a little more about discretion than yourself.” Nancy relaxed herself slightly. The two women were on opposite ends of the room, neither moving any closer than necessary. “But you’re right. I’m not here to insult I’m here to extort.”

“Do your worst.”

“The Lord Chief Justice has recently come into a treasure-trove of information, on account of his being given a present. One of the Spartans, I think is what they call themselves. Nice enough name for ones killing my girls.” Lydia tensed, and though they were some distance apart, Nancy could tell she’d hit the mark. She continued. “I think he knows a lot more than he’s willing to tell, but they always did have their methods.”

“And,” Lydia tried to compose herself, and regain her footing. “And what has he said?”

“Not too sure, now that you ask, though he certainly knows who’s been helping his little operation" something the Chief Justice is very keen to extract. The Marquis, you may have heard, is now somewhat indisposed, if I recall – to Paris?” Nancy was openly mocking now, and made no attempt to hide it.

“What do you want?”

“The location of Isabella Fitzwilliams’ daughter; for you to stop your blackmail of her. I want you to leave Charlotte alone, and all the others you feed off like the hag you are, and I want you to keep Blayne and his men in Paris. I want you to act like a guard dog, chained to my leash, Lydia Quigley,” finished Nancy, with not a little satisfaction.

“Anything else?” asked Quigley.

“Yes. I’d like you to write to Lady Fitzwilliams’ lawyer in the hand of Blayne, and get him to hand over the money to her.”

“Quite an ask, all of this. And what is my payment?”

“Avoiding the gallows? Away from Bedlam? Away from me? I don’t care. I’ve lost an awful lot because of you. I’m not about to lose a daughter, or her happiness, because you wanted to help a bunch of shittenly lords no better than John Wild himself.”

“This is all empty. I’ve got nothing to offer you –“

Nancy had begun to move forward, heading for the door on a course that lead her straight into collision with Quigley. No sooner had she begun speaking was she standing not a hair’s breadth from the Mistress of the house:

“You’ve got no reason to believe this is true, yet Blayne is ousted from England and Lucy is safe. The Wells girls are alive and the Chief Justice has stopped knocking on your door each week. Justice Hunt too, is prowling outside, ready to close you down again only this time, you don’t have the flesh to win the men that pay your rent. Half of London knows what you did to that poor girl you know – ain’t nobody from here to Bridewell is going to trust you in their alehouse. You’ve got a name now too, with the hacks: Needham’s Child. Flattering, ain’t it?” Quigley shifted on her feet. “Do what I want and I’ll go away. Can’t get the hacks off your tail but I can tie it up with the Chief Justice – he owes us a favour at least.”

The two women stared at one another, a challenge neither wanted to back down from, but with an inevitable loser.

* * *

 

It was Lucy who led the way through the Fitzrovia boarding school. It wasn’t that Charlotte couldn’t play a part – because she could, and she was well acquainted with such circles - but this was more important than that, and Charlotte was nervous.

The sisters were following a matronly woman who looked far more like a nun than a governess in their luscious surroundings. They had, upon reaching the front gate, presented a notice from Lydia Quigley permitting them to take the girl, and so were now being led to the room in which the unsuspecting girl was waiting.

The pace fast and purposeful, it didn’t take long for the trio to reach their destination. Opening the door, the mistress let them both inside, before leaving them and shutting the door behind her. The sisters looked at one another.

“S’that it?” asked Charlotte.

“What were you expecting?”

“Half expected to have to fight our way in with sticks.”

“Why?” asked a voice, sweet and angelic, and thought Charlotte didn’t recognize it she heard the world from which it came, and knew they had the right girl.

The sisters snapped to look at where the voice had come from, interrupting their talk. The girl was sat, her posture straight and head held level. In her hands was a book, place held by delicate, thin fingers. She wore a light, elegant blue gown, pristine pale skin exposed at her collar. Her hair was long, and blonde, and – and Lucy felt like she’d walked into a Reynolds painting.

Charlotte felt like she should probably leave. It was only Lucy’s steadying presence that kept her still.

She was going to ask if her name was Sophie: if she’d be so kind as to come with them, to see her mother. But all of that flew out of the window – or maybe, somewhere in her mind, she realized that it would have merely provoked more questions and uncertainties and that the only thing this place lacked was someone who actually spoke what they meant.

So instead, Charlotte raised an eyebrow.

“It’s never that easy with us,” she answered.

“Why?”

“Do you only ask ‘why’?”

“Do you always come and pick up strange girls from boarding schools?”

“Are you strange then?”

“I must be strange to you, for you don’t know me. Or at least, I don’t know you, so you mustn’t know me.”

It was time for Lucy to step in, before her sister said something cold and unfeeling, as she always did when she felt threatened and unsure of herself.

“We know who you are Sophie,” began Lucy, her voice a lot softer than her sister’s. “We were sent by your mother.”

“My mother? I’ve never seen her.”

“No, but she would like to see you now,” replied Lucy.

Sophie put aside her book, but did not stand. “It seems strange she’d want to see me now. Does she expect me to come at once?”

“Well – “

“Truth is, your mother doesn’t know we’re here,” said Charlotte, cutting off whatever it was Lucy was going to say. “But we do know her well, and we do know you. Your mother is – is a great friend of mine, and she’s wanted to see you for a long time.”

“Why didn’t she?”

“Because she couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you wouldn’t stop asking why,” snapped Charlotte, instantly regretting her tone. To her relief, Sophie dropped her eyes and smiled a little.

“I’m sorry,” said the girl. “This is a little surprising.”

Charlotte walked up to her, standing in front of where she sat.

“I can imagine. We’re not here to kidnap you, or put you in harms way. Truth is, I wanted to surprise your mother by doing something nice for her. You see, your Ladyship did something very kind for me not long past, and I wanted to repay her.”

Sophie considered, before asking: “Is she your friend?”

Charlotte swallowed. “Very much so.”

For someone so young, her gaze was incredibly penetrating, and it took all of Charlotte’s control not to squirm. Just like her mother, she thought.

“Then I’ll trust you.”

Lucy let out a breath. “Thank you,” she said, in evident relief.

Sophie stood up. “Shall we go?”

Charlotte exchanged a look with her sister. “Do you not want to collect your things?”

“A coat, perhaps – but I should leave the rest. I will have to come back to continue my education, won’t I? Or does mother want me forever?”

Charlotte considered. “No. You’re right. Leave it. We can let your mother decide, though she’d agree with you I’m sure.”

* * *

“You’re leaving.”

“So it would seem, dear sister. I’m to go to Paris to live out my days in service to our glorious King.”

“Will you…be returning?”

“I imagine you should hope not.”

“The estate –“

“Is yours. And your money. It would seem Lydia Quigley has finally done something of service for you, in that respect. I’ll be gone within the month. Don’t look so delighted. I’m still here. And while I’m here, you are mine. And I shan’t let you forget me. I went away once before, didn’t I, and you forgot. I won’t have that again. I’ll see to it that you shan’t forget me for a moment.”

* * *

With her new, accessible, fortune, Isabella Fitzwilliam bought a new house by the park. She didn’t want the memories of the old place that had, although been her own, been paid for by her brother, and paid host to his debauchery. It was the first thing she had bought for herself since she could remember. After that, she had invested in several new frocks, underclothes, and stays. They sat unopened, down in the servants kitchen.

She didn’t question too hard how the money had been arranged, though she would ask Charlotte the next time she saw her. The last month had been horrific. and though she hadn't seen Charlotte at all, it had been the only thing to keep her sane. Her arms till ached, and her mind fragile, but she was alive, and free, and her brother could no longer touch her anywhere but in his dreams.

She was sure Charlotte was up to something: she hadn’t seen her in more than a month, and during that time had received not even a letter. She supposed, however, that the fault was not entirely Charlotte’s: Isabella had not made to venture to Greek Street, too fearful of her brother’s mood changes and violent temper that had only gotten worse as his exile drew nearer.

As she was mulling these things over in her head, planning how to excuse a visit to Charlotte, the bell rang. She listened as her maid went to answer it, and heard only muffled greetings. The maid soon appeared in the doorway to the parlour.

“Ms. Wells is here. Shall I send her in?” Lady Fitzwilliam jolted in surprise, putting down her cup of tea at once.

“Yes of course. Always. If it is her, always let her in Rachel. She is always welcome.”

“Ma’am,” bowed the maid. “She is accompanied by a guest –“

“Send them both in.” Isabella didn’t much care if she was with ten others. As she heard them rustling in the hall, she stood, smoothing at her petticoats and staring about her in wild horror, or panic, or simply with nerves as she struggled to look natural.

She heard a cough in the doorway. Isabella spun round, her skirts spinning out at the movement.

“Charlotte,” she said, her voice breathy.

Charlotte smiled, and curtseyed. “My Lady.”

“I really wish you wouldn’t.”

“You say it rubs you the wrong way, but you’re smiling. I think you secretly like it.”

Isabella blushed. “From you, perhaps.”

Charlotte couldn’t stop smiling. She looked away at the revelation. Neither had moved closer. The room seemed a distance too wide to traverse safely, for both knew that were they to let themselves go, it would only to be into each other’s arms, and then to bed, and there to explore Isabella’s apparent fascination with her title of “My Lady.”

As it was, Charlotte was hiding a gift. Yet, so too was Isabella – though of an entirely different kind. She rung the bell. Rachel appeared at the door.

“Could you bring the packages up from the kitchen?” Rachel nodded once and sped off. “I kept her with me, even after…even after my brother. She’s discreet and a good worker. And she keeps me company.”

“I’m sorry. It’s been a while and –“

“You were busy.”

“Yes. But not – not without thinking of you,” replied Charlotte. To what extent, the Lady had yet to find out. Her month of absence had been solely devoted to Isabella’s happiness, and now the day was finally here.

“Would you…would you sit?”

Charlotte shook her head. “I can’t stay.” Isabella, for a moment, looked anguished at the notion of such a brief visit, but quickly controlled herself.

“Then I’ll have your company for as long as you'll give it.”

Charlotte smiled softly. “Not long. I have –“

It was Rachel entering that interrupted her, arms laden with boxes from the tailors. She set them down on the table.

“Take them out to Charlotte’s carriage; in a moment though. I want to see if she likes them,” added Isabella, voice soft and full of a happiness the maid had never heard in her mistress as long as she had been employed with the family.

Rachel looked at Charlotte Wells, the girl who was now walking forward to inspect the merchandise, and made a few keen observations that she would, on pain of death, be keeping to herself henceforth. She did, however, allow herself an indulgent smile at the pleasure of her mistress’ happiness, in whatever form that might be – and reminded herself to perhaps have a quick word with Ms. Wells about the inexcusability of any less-than-perfect conduct when it came to the woman who had employed her, and protected her, throughout her tenure with the Marquis of Blayne.

“Isabella, what is this?”

“A gift.”

“Why?” Charlotte heard a snicker from the hall and hoped that it remained unnoticed by the company. She bit back her smart response to the snicker, in the hopes of saving Isabella from their bickering.

“Is there someone else?” asked Isabella, suddenly remembering Rachel had mentioned two people at the door. “Tell them to come in.”

Charlotte placed the lid back on the boxes, and nodded in thanks to Rachel. She had no intention of keeping the gifts, but at present she had more pressing things to broker with the Lady.

“Isabella,” she began, though not sure how to continue. “I…I also have a gift. Of sorts. Gift is not the right thing to say.”

“You should’ve put me in a box,” chimed a voice, now revealing itself from behind the wall.

Isabella froze, and Charlotte swore she heard a gasp. “Sophie.”

Sophie curtseyed. “ _Maman_ ,” she said.

Isabella looked at Charlotte. “Go to her,” she prompted. Isabella did so at once, gently touching her daughter’s face.

“Is it you? Why are you here? This is…this is dangerous. You cannot be here.”

“I should hope it’s me. I think I’m me?”

“Don’t be a smart arse,” chided Charlotte, with all the love and affection in the world. Isabella snapped her eyes to the woman, but upon seeing the mirth in her face realized it was in jest, and relaxed.

Charlotte met the Lady’s gaze and smiled. “It’s safe. As safe as it will ever be, at least. Your brother is gone.”

“How…”

Charlotte laughed. “Lydia Quigley. She got you your money, too. Nancy told her to forge your brother’s seal and signature, or get him to give you the money himself. Whatever she did, she worked her magic with the Chief Justice – course, then he put her away to Bedlam on account of her being tried for the murder of the girls around the city. Wasn’t her, naturally, but she helped the men that did it. She pleaded the belly first, though they soon found that a lie: didn’t have a penny to bribe the doctor, and all of a sudden her girls seemed less than happy to help her. When that failed, she pleaded madness. Madness to do it if you ask me. She’s stuck in Bedlam now. Rather be hanging from the gallows myself, but she wanted to live alright.”

Charlotte was lost in her story, and had forgot the company. She blushed. “Sorry. Forgot Sophie wouldn’t want to here my speak. Any case – she won’t be speaking out about you. And if she does, it’s the speech of a madwoman now. There's no one to listen."

Isabella was entirely overwhelmed. “Charlotte.”

 Sophie watched the two women, and it would surprise no one to hear that she quickly came to the same conclusions as had the maid, Rachel, upon seeing the two ladies. Her mother, though stood in front of her, itched to stand by her love – Sophie made a mental note never to bring that title up with her mother (or at least, not in the next few hours) – torn between eros and her duties as a mother. Sophie was, for her part, delighted at this development, and while she would be careful of her knowledge around her mother, was pleased to find some information to tease the cagey harlot in their playful spats.

If she smiled, it was for the duel pleasure of these thoughts, and the knowledge that perhaps she did have a home that she could call her own.

“Can she stay?” asked Isabella, voice soft.

“Of course. It’s the holidays for school. She has until January. I made it right with her guardians, too. I apologise I had to…let her stay at mine, for a bit. Though we were all on our best behavior. Even Nancy didn’t utter a foul word.”

“Much,” added Sophie, smiling.

Charlotte shot her a look. Ordinarily, perhaps Isabella would have been shocked to hear that, even angry. Not a year ago, she would have been frantic at the thought of someone like Charlotte Wells and her family giving home to her daughter. And yet now, knowing them so thoroughly and ashamed at her own prejudices, she could not think of a more loving place than the brothel on Greek Street.

Isabella laughed through the tears now threatening to spill. “I’m sure she would have been thoroughly amused.” Isabella looked at Charlotte. “Can I assume she will be welcome again?”

Charlotte smiled. “Anytime. Pa dotes on her more than he ever did me or Luce, and she’s good with Jason too.”

“Then we will be frequent visitors I’m sure.” With those meaningful words, the room fell silent, and Charlotte took her leave.

“I’ll see you soon, Isabella. Call on me when you will.”

“Charlotte – “ she cut herself off. Sophie squeezed her mother’s hands in support. “Thank you. You have given me…you have given me the greatest happiness.”

* * *

Charlotte tossed her hat on the kitchen table. Pa picked it up and threw it over by the fire, not wanting the table cluttered.

“How’d it go?” asked Nancy, smoking in the corner.

Charlotte smiled. “Well enough.”

“Gonna miss that girl,” she mused.

“I’m sure she’ll be back,” added Pa, sagely.

“Aye, and her mother besides,” teased Nancy.

“Stop it.”

“They’re right,” said Lucy, shrugging on a shawl. Her cull passed in the hall behind her.

“Aren’t you tired?” asked Charlotte, eager to stop this particular conversation.

“Cums in 3 mins he does, and he pays for more. Nothing could possibly stop me from missing this talk anyway.” Lucy slumped down into a chair. “Have you talked about it yet?”

“Talked about what?” asked Charlotte, defensive.

“What you are. Is she a customer?”

“Oh she’s not that,” interrupted Nancy, “no cull’s ever come for free in this house.”

“So she’s not a customer then. A friend, perhaps?”

“Friendship takes many forms,” replied Pa, recalling Charlotte’s own words in mockery.

Charlotte threw a plate at Lucy, but she dodged, and continued. “If she’s not that, then what?”

“I'll feed you to the Peelers if you don’t shut it,” growled Charlotte.

“We wouldn’t want young Sophie hearing such vile threats,” chastised Lucy. “You should learn to speak in front of a lady, as we’ll no doubt be seeing a lot more of her.”

The group was laughing now, and Charlotte, though uncomfortable, could see the funny side. She wasn't pleased, but they meant no harm and that they accepted Isabella was enough. In honesty, she didn’t know what she and the Lady were, and she doubted they would ever talk about it. She only knew that whatever Isabella wanted, Charlotte would give.

Charlotte had barely noticed the conversation stop, those round the table watching her as she thought.

“It’s okay to love,” said Nancy, when Charlotte didn't speak. Charlotte’s eyes snapped up, looking at her. “It’s allowed.”

“Is it?” she replied, voice as delicate as Lucy had ever heard it - and though she’d been teasing her sister, and knew of her feelings better than she herself did, it was only now that Lucy realized how serious this was.

“Yes,” replied Pa.

* * *

Isabella was sat in the parlour at Greek Street. It was late – or early in the morning, she couldn’t tell – and the candles were almost burnt down. The fire was going, and the room was filled with laughter and quiet conversation. It was a night off for the ladies of Covent Garden, and though trade was always wanting, Charlotte had decreed a night of remembrance for Ma once a year, for the house to take to themselves and relax. More than a year ago, Isabella would not have thought she would be here in Charlotte Wells’ home, welcomed and comfortable.

Charlotte ran the place with her Pa as aid, just like her mother before her. True to her promise, some of her duties had ceased, and though Isabella would have taken great pleasure in keeping her well at St James, she loved enough to know that Charlotte would always be free to come and go as she pleased.

Sophie was here too, sat on the floor with Lucy and Jacob attempting some puzzle or other. She looked happy, thought Isabella: much more so here than at her school for Young Ladies. A year more and she would be introduced to society; it was something Isabella dreaded, and yet knew was inevitable. Still, her daughter had learned more here under their watchful gaze than any school could teach, and though perhaps her manners had roughened slightly, and her discourse freer than society deemed acceptable, Isabella saw these traits only as an advantage.

She must speak to Charlotte, she thought, about Sophie’s education into other matters. The thought made her uncomfortable, but she knew Sophie was smart and knew all that went on here. Perhaps the talk could be avoided all together, if her friendship with the girls of the brothel was anything to go by: and yet, it would make Isabella feel secure if they could sit her down, and warn her well.

The head on her lap shifted, and Isabella’s hand moved away from its place resting in thick curls.

“Why did you stop?” asked Charlotte, looking up at Isabella. “You stopped stroking my hair.”

Isabella laughed. “I’m sorry, my love.”

Charlotte didn’t smile, but her eyes danced with mirth. “This is no laughing matter,” she replied.

Isabella raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Charlotte shook her head. “No, it’s not.”

“Kiss her!” yelled Nancy from across the room, long drunk on wine supplied by Isabella. The crowd laughed, and began chanting.

Isabella, though hardened and much more comfortable than before, still blushed at the attention, earning more playful laughter. She kept her eyes down on Charlotte, who equally ignored their company.

“Kiss her,” added another voice: Kitty in the background, no doubt, louder than the rest.

“You’re blushing,” said Charlotte, tenderly, still bemused that Isabella could be made to blush.

“Yes.”

“Do you not want to kiss me?”

“More than anything,” she replied.

“Then why aren’t you?”

Isabella swallowed. “Do you ever think how lucky we are? That we can."

Charlotte frowned, noting Isabella's darkened thoughts. She considered her reply. “I think about it every day, when I see you. I would like to be paraded more, perhaps but only because I want you to be proud. I used to hate being paraded.”

“I am terribly proud of you. I would marry you if I could.”

“Marriage isn’t anything to write home about, but I’d take a rose, if you’d please,” teased Charlotte. “The people that matter know, you know. And if you’re not the talk of the town, it’s because every one of us that cares protects you, and doesn’t want to make you gossip.”

“More people know than you think,” muttered Isabella.

“I’m sure they do, but are they talking loudly of your affairs?”

“I suppose not.”

Charlotte shifted slightly, impatient. “Will you kiss me now? They’re still chanting, and they won’t wait forever.”

Isabella didn’t reply at once.

“Would you like to go to the theatre tomorrow?” she asked, stroking Charlotte’s cheek.

“To see what?” replied Charlotte, though she had already agreed in her head, and would ask Lucy to cover for her duties tomorrow night.

“ _L’Amour m_ _é_ _dicin.”_

Charlotte frowned. “Will it be in French?”

“Yes, my love, but I’ll whisper in your ear all that is being said.”

Charlotte grinned at the thought. “Is it happy?”

“Yes.”

“Will you like it?”

“I will. And so will you, I think. Will you come?”

Charlotte had asked these questions, but both knew she would. Still, Charlotte demurred.

“Perhaps. If you kiss me.”

Isabella smiled and leant down.


End file.
